The Colour of Despair
by Closet Fanfic Fan
Summary: "Crow" crossover starring Grantaire. Where love is concerned, there is no evil.
1. Author's Note

**

AUTHOR'S NOTE

**

'The Crow' was originally a graphic novel (or comic book) by James O'Barr. It was adapted into a film which was followed by two sequels. There have been comic and novel spin-offs and a TV series based on the first film. There is also plenty of 'Crow' fan fiction on the internet. The following quote from the original film sums up the 'Crow' mythos:

_

"People once believed that when someone dies a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back - to put the wrong things right."

_

In short, 'The Crow' is about vengeance. The protagonists of 'Crow' stories are characters able to return from death in order to right injustices done to themselves and to loved ones who shared their fate - by hunting down the perpetrators and making them pay in blood. I know, this sounds miles away from 'Les Miserables' which is all about redemption. However, although both 'Les Miserables' and 'The Crow' take us to worlds of suffering on an almost incomprehensible level, they carry the same basic message in slightly different ways: that love can be strong enough to outlast death and negate evil.

N.B. Mandatory disclaimer. We know where 'Les Miserables' came from. You now know where 'The Crow' came from too. Jehan Prouvaire's poem in Chapter 3 comes straight from Norman Denny's 1976 translation of the novel 'Les Miserables', as published by Puffin Classics.


	2. Prologue

**

PROLOGUE

**

_One owes respect to the living. To the dead, one owes only truth.  
_ - VOLTAIRE

It had been unseasonably wet for June. The past month or so had been marked with storms which, in their passing, made the redolent summer heat all the more unsettling. There had been heavy showers of rain early this morning, which had cleared up by midday and left the city momentarily refreshed; every surface in Paris seeming to gleam with water and the promise of new and better things to come. The rain brought out the scent of the rich French earth; grass seemed greener and the sky even more vivid. The clouds had not yet parted, casting a blanket of pearly grey above the city, constantly shifting and changing.

In the great Sainte-Marguerite Cemetery, one of the seven oldest graveyards built within Paris' walls, one could stand amongst the stone markers and the monoliths, drink in the cool damp air, listen to the wind rustle through the branches of the apple trees and feel temporarily at peace. The church that guarded the cemetery's entrance was relatively small and select - priests had been known to grow up and grow old within this single city parish. The current curé, Father Dominic, had been in residency for thirty-six years and had seen more evidence of Paris' tempestuous and spirited nature than he cared to remember. 

It was Father Dominic and his host of volunteers who kept the cemetery as beautiful as it was. Weeds were painstakingly separated from the long clean grass, the gravel paths down aisles and aisles of graves were kept neat and smooth, the flowering hedges were trimmed every three months, and the apple trees near the back wall of the cemetery were carefully tended. Towards the back of the cemetery the gravestones and angels and acroterions petered out, leaving vast expanses of grass and simple stones, uncarved and unmarked. In thinking that these spaces indicated the patches of earth yet to serve a slumbering man, woman or child as their final pillow, one would be wrong.

Those who lay here deserved no markers or final blessings.

All communal graves have one thing in common: their tenants are victims. Sometimes they are victims of natural catastrophe, or of war, or famine or disease . . . or of their own simple folly. It is the latter group who provoke the greatest hatred amongst society. People who choose to throw their lives away for no obvious reason pose two problems: why did they do what they did, and what is to be done with the corpses left behind. The first problem is one which society as a whole tries to duck. The second is always solved in the same manner. 

Those whose business it is to know such things swear on their souls that there is one such unmarked mass grave in the far right corner of the Sainte-Marguerite Cemetery: a pit dug at the foot of a dead apple tree. Popular superstition had it that many of those who threw their lives away in the rue de la Chanvrerie, during two days of June 1832 lay in this cemetery, sharing the same grave as they had shared the same ideals. No stone marked the expanse of earth - how could it? None knew for sure who lay beneath. 

Marius Pontmercy, however, felt that he could hazard a fairly accurate guess.

He stood before this seemingly tranquil stretch of grass as he had stood here many times before. Sometimes he brought flowers, or candles to light and leave behind, but today he brought nothing. On this, the day that marked the fifth anniversary of so many of his friends' untimely deaths, he felt that any gift no matter how significant would be trite and petty, and for his own peace of mind rather than theirs.

But always he talked. Although he knew that those below were too far away to hear, it comforted him to keep that link between them. In a way, this nameless grave had come to represent his friends as a whole. It didn't matter if none of them had found their way into this pit of bones - it was an idea, a dream, a vision that had been slaughtered that day. A vision they had all shared.

And what did he talk about? Anything they would have found of interest during their lives. Sometimes if he discovered a particularly beautiful poem in a newly published volume, he would bring it to the cemetery, read it aloud and ask Jehan what he thought of it. He would describe new political theories or doings in government, wondering if any of them still heard or cared. Every now and then he purchased medical journals and scanned them for new and interesting articles that Joly or Combeferre might possibly be interested in. A couple of times he had even brought bottles of expensive Bordeaux wine, and let the rich red liquid pour over the soil so that the dead might drink.

More often, he just told them about his growing family, and his hopes and dreams for them and for the future. Simple talk, the kind they had all enjoyed most back in the Cafe Musain when tomorrow was just around the corner, the world was full of light and death was an abstract thought.

Today his first words were for Enjolras.

"My son grows strong. The fever is receding, it turned out not to be anything serious. He had Cosette and I worried for a while. I see that in giving him your name, I gave him your strength."

Jean Justin Pontmercy. There had been no argument about the name.

Marius heaved a deep sigh. Although that terrible, aching, raging grief was a thing of the past, there was no denying that this was a sad place. Sometimes he still had nightmares, agonised by the fact that he didn't even know for sure who lay here and who did not. The rational part of his mind told him that it hardly mattered - no matter where their souls were, their bodies would be nothing but bones by now. That thought only made things worse. It made his friends seem more far away than ever.

He could imagine Courfeyrac's or Grantaire's response to that. _"So don't come here, you stupid boy. Don't come back until France is a republic, and when that happens you can forget Bordeaux and break out the champagne, thank you very kindly!"_

On second thought, Grantaire would have skipped the France becoming a republic part, and just demanded the champagne. He smiled at that.

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a clatter wings and a sharp cry. He sensed something swoop overhead, and instinctively looked up.

A large crow had flown from across the cemetery, and now perched on one of the branches of the dead apple tree. It snapped its curved beak and cocked its sleek head, seeming to look straight at the man standing on the ground. A black bird. Black as Marius' hair, black as the night, black as sadness and loss, black as the darkness that he was so afraid had engulfed his friends.

As a Catholic, he knew he should believe that his friends were in Heaven, or if not that, then at least some place of consciousness where their suffering was over and they were at peace. He knew Cosette believed in such a place where her lost mother walked in white, along with the man she had called "Father" and had given their son his first name. Marius wanted to believe in that place too, but he had his doubts. He had held a young girl as she breathed her last, frantically wanting to believe that everything would be all right because she was finally in the arms of the man she loved. Marius had seen the look in her eyes as she died, and he knew that if anybody deserved Heaven, then she did. But something stopped him from believing completely. If there was a heaven and a God who ruled it, then how could He have let this happen to so many precious people? What had they done wrong?

_The best of a generation . . ._

Enjolras had promised them the future - no doubt a future his shining vision of whatever it was had promised to him. But into that future had come a whirlwind of violence and darkness and horror that shattered dreams and destroyed lives. For nothing. Their dream was not remembered, let alone fulfilled. The world had not mourned their passing. The world did not seem to care.

Marius realised that he had stopped looking at the crow, and was now looking back at the grassy ground at his feet. Five years! Such a long time. Long enough to usher in a new little life that had changed his and Cosette's world, yet not long enough for his pain to have abated. Perhaps it never would. 

He shivered slightly, and plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets. "Five years ago to this day I lost you," he said, seeming to address the earth itself. "And five years ago I lost something of myself. I know you may not believe me, but part of me stayed with you at the barricade, and died with you."

Marius knelt down and touched the damp grass with the tips of his fingers.

_They could be right here . . ._

_They could be so close . . ._

The crow regarded him with its black bead of an eye. Marius was not made uneasy by the intensity of the bird's stare. On the contrary, he felt a little more tranquil, if no less melancholy. There it sat on the branch overlooking the communal grave, as if a sentry outside the Palace of Versailles itself.

_People once believed that when a person dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead . . . _

He cut that thought off, slightly amused at himself. Where had _THAT_ come from? Perhaps he had read it once somewhere, in a book of pagan beliefs his grandfather kept in his childhood home. For a moment, he tried to remember the rest of the fragment, but it eluded him. All that he remembered was that many superstitions regard the crow and the raven as the keepers of the dead. Which wasn't all that surprising, when one remembered that these were carrion birds.

The church bell tower tolled the hour of six.

He wondered how long he had been standing here. Probably long enough to make Cosette worry. Rising, he shivered once more, and looked back up at the crow. It hadn't moved. "Guard them well, my friend," he said to the great black bird. With that, he turned and slowly walked towards the gates of the cemetery. Outside the gates, Cosette sat in the Pontmercy's one carriage, waiting for her beloved to finish what he had to do. He walked towards her, towards his life.

Once the sad young man dressed in black was safely away from this site and back amongst the marked graves and weeping marble angels, the crow left its branch and fluttered to the ground. It scratched about at the earth for a few moments, then rustled its wings again and cawed nervously. There are some things that, no matter how many times you do them, simply do not get any easier.

_Guard them well,_ the sad young man had said.

Ha! If only the task at hand was that simple!

_sorry boy but that is not what i was told to do_

With that, it cawed once again, for reassurance, and pecked three times at the ground. Then it spread its wings to the cool pearly sky and the dark magic began.


	3. Chapter 1

**

CHAPTER ONE

** _

Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.  


_ – STEPHEN KING, "Pet Sematary" 

What was about to happen here was very, very wrong. The bird was vaguely aware of that. There is life and there is death, and like all living creatures it had an inherent respect and awe for the dividing line between. But this wrong thing was about to happen nonetheless. Whoever the crow was here to resurrect, something so terrible had happened to them that the basic laws of nature would simply have to be overridden in order to correct some mystical imbalance and compensate for their pain. The crow had taken this journey many times, but it had never fully understood it.

But to the task at hand.

A powerful magic, this. But selective too. Its force was focused on one single goal, only one body out of anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five. One man would hear the crow's summoning and one alone – the bones of all those around him would remain indifferent to the crow's call, safely locked within their incomprehensive stasis. No matter what went on beneath the soil of this sacred ground, only one man would ultimately be affected. The others would remain undisturbed.

Beneath the earth, bones twitched and jumped, began shuffling towards one another. Joining, locking. The skull would have to regenerate itself entirely; whatever had happened to this man, his head had been destroyed completely by some great injury. The crow beat its open wings, as if willing the correct bones to find each other. Exactly what went on below the ground it did not know – it had never known, despite having guided many on this same dark journey. But if its own senses were anything to go by, what was happening beneath the soil was not pleasant.

__

Ah, something clicked inside its brain, _it is finished_; the skeleton was complete. Now came the tricky part – clothing the whole in muscle and flesh and revitalising it with living blood. It was always more difficult when it happened this way, with a body long decomposed. More work, more concentration, and the poor soul involved no doubt endured a great deal more trauma. But who was the crow to question this delay in justice? It was here to do a job, and that was all there was to it. 

The crow snapped its wings shut and cawed once more. _Let it begin._

Immediately, it could feel a new force surging through its little body, entering at the crown of its dark feathered head rushing down through its black clawed feet and into the ground below. It hurt . . . in a strange way it could not fully comprehend, it really hurt. A healing wound causes pain, an entire body reforming itself over a simple skeleton is agony. Gurgling quietly in its throat, determined not to cry out, the bird shuddered to itself, forcing itself to remain connected to the earth, not to fly away and break the charm.

As marrow and muscle grew from nothing, tiny tendons and strands wrapping them around bones and joints, the crow felt it happen as if millions of tiny burning ants were crawling over its own skin. It quivered under the pressure, but forced itself to concentrate. Flesh formed out of dead cells and empty space, determinedly knitting itself along the designated paths, following the courses of empty hollow veins. Blood cells formed but did not move. For that to happen, the heart would have to beat. And for the heart to beat, the body would have to live.

Single molecules were pulled seemingly from nowhere, and found their correct positions and linked together to form cells which formed systems which formed whole organs. As a pair of lungs unfolded and settled into the concavity of the dead man's chest, the crow felt the air being sucked out of its own, and the aching buzzing pain of the magic knotted it to the ground. For now, movement was impossible. No matter how much it hurt, the crow would not be able to flee what had begun.

Finally, a face was formed from the living dead tissue surrounding the skull. Lips, eyes, cheeks, nose; cells busily gathering and clustering and dividing at a dizzying rate the crow sensed if not understood. Fingernails and toenails developed and hardened, and hair began to grow once more on the pale bare skin. Even though this marked the conclusion of the second phase, the crow did not dare to relax. Mistakes could be made every step of the way.

A rumble from the sky. Anxiously, it looked up, anticipating some unexpected intervention from whatever immensity waited beyond the horizon. But it was a perfectly natural sign, announcing the coming of yet another storm. Oh well, that added to the dramatic atmosphere of the proceedings, if nothing else.

At last, the second phase of the mysterious ritual was complete. Whosoever lay beneath this earth was now a completed form. This final stage was the one the crow truly dreaded. The highest chance of things going wrong, the greatest amount of strength and energy expended. It waited and rested for a few precious moments, re-gathering its thoughts and power, scratching at the soil more out of habit than necessity. It waited until it was told the time had come.

__

NOW!!! 

Spreading its wings with all the strength it could muster, the crow threw its head back and cawed to the sky. The pain hit it like lightning, and like a lightning rod, the crow directed this force down through its body and into the ground beneath. For a moment the earth grew searing hot to the touch and once again the crow fought the urge to use the wings it was born with to escape. But that moment passed, and the earth was as cold as it had been to begin with.

But something else was no longer cold.

The roar in the crow's ears faded, and the pain abated. After assuring itself that the ritual was over and everything was as it should be, the crow hopped a couple of paces and bent down, placing its tiny ear to the ground.

The heartbeat had begun.

He was back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Then there was darkness . . .

Darkness. All of a sudden, it seemed very dark.

__

Why did I not notice that before . . . ? And what is that sound . . . ?

Muffled, a rushing hollow sound, that seemed very far away. The more he listened, the more it made sense. It was still a rush, but there was a distinct rhythm to it. He felt connected to it in some way he could not explain.

__

that's your heart boy

What was that I just heard? He had understood the message with crystal clarity, but it had seemed not to travel through his ears rather than through some more essential channel he could not identify. Whether the voice was male or female he did not know, but it had spoken to him and it meant him no harm. Where had it come from?

__

it was me and i am above where you need to be

And where am I now?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Up in the dead apple tree, the crow cocked its head. The man below had heard his message and was slowly computing it, analysing it for meaning. That was well and good – at least it demonstrated that he was in full possession of all his faculties – but speed was a problem. When the final traces of magic dissipated, there would be nothing more sustaining him beneath the earth, and he would have to break free fast. 

__

trust me listen to me you have to move quickly now reach up boy reach up up up up 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Up . . .

He understood the concept of "up", and he understood that the voice wanted him to hurry. But this place was too dark, too quiet, and the only thing he could hear apart from the voice was that confused, muffled drumbeat. Oh yes, that was his own heart, wasn't it? _Heart . . . I seem to remember someone talking about hearts. Who . . . ? _All of a sudden he thought of another voice, definitely human, definitely young and male, explaining excitedly about the heart, how it shrivelled and hardened if you ate too much salt, or was it butter? He heard the voice swearing by God that it would never touch that substance again, whichever it was, and urging everybody to do the same. _I knew that voice . . . I'm sure I knew its owner . . ._

The first voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and urgent now.

__

don't think about that now boy think about getting out i told you to reach up come now boy do what i say

All right . . . There seemed no reason not to try. Obediently, obeying both the voice and his own instincts, the man tried to reach up. And could not.

Some mysterious weight trapped his arms by his sides, offering no release and no purchase. Cautiously he tried to move one of his feet. That didn't work either.

__

Oh no . . . 

This was starting to make more sense. He heard his heart begin to beat faster, and felt some strange pain building behind his eyes, between his ears. Whatever it was, it was pressing down on him on all sides and it was cold.

__

don't boy don't panic just listen to me and everything will be fine

That calm voice again. But how could it be calm? How could it tell him not to panic when he was in the dark and weighed down by an enormous pressure and a substance he did not understand?

__

WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME??? 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The boy had started to panic. The crow suppressed an inward sigh, and peered down urgently. Sometimes it was possible to keep them calm, and they were able to reach up through the earth as easily as if they were merely swimming to the surface of a lake. Obviously this was not one of those cases. Obviously the man was now aware that he was trapped by a natural force.

The crow did not envy the boy his position. But it would have to work fast now, and hope that the boy was calm enough to listen to him.

__

can you still hear me boy

Then it felt something hit its back. Jumping slightly, the crow watched as more heavy raindrops fell to the ground, then more and more. Oh, wonderful. The clouds had broken yet again. However, this could possibly have its advantages – it made the earth softer, at least. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

__

OH DEAR GOD, WHAT'S THAT????

A new sound, a terrifying sound, completely different to the sound of its heart. It sounded something like a million hearts pumping at once, but there was no rhythm and it seemed to be coming from everywhere, making his entire body tremble.

__

that is the rain boy and it is good but don't worry about that just listen to me

The man tried, he honestly did. But all of a sudden he was burning all over, burning and trembling, and the tightness in his chest was becoming unbearable. Whatever was happening, he wanted it to stop right now.

Like a man possessed, he began to fight the weight which pinned him down, struggling and churning through the heavy substance he did not understand, not even caring that it was dark and he could see nothing. But despite his struggles, the effort seemed futile, this mass refused to budge. Nonetheless, something in the Voice told him not to give up and he obeyed, continuing to struggle, fight his way towards that abstract idea which was "up". 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Trembling with exertion and adrenaline, the crow felt the earth rumble and move beneath its feet. First trying to scrabble for a firm grip on the ground, it then gave up and flapped back to its former branch in the stunted apple tree. There it remained, watching the ground in one particular spot shake about, and listening to a heartbeat and a rasping breath that only it could hear. 

__

come on boy come on come on you can do it i'm right here you can do it

This was one of the most perilous moments of the old, old journey. If the man was not able to make it out of the earth he had been buried in, then he would slip quietly back into death, the power would be wasted, and he and his friend would be as far away from help as ever before. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

__

I hear you, Voice. I hear you but this is so, so hard . . .

For a terrible moment, the man considered giving up. He had forgotten what it was like before he became aware it was dark, and wondered what it would be like to stop struggling and just lie there and relax, and let this dark mass embrace him. A tempting idea. Tempting as a bottle of . . . _A bottle of what? What am I thinking about? "Bottle" . . . I remember bottles, receptacles of glass that contain . . . actually I don't remember what, but I am pretty sure it's something good . . ._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now this was taking much too long. The crow shuffled about nervously, eyeing the ground, waiting for the man to break through. It wasn't going to happen. He'd need some extra help. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

__

AAAAARRRRGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

The man flailed in a panic, fighting the surge of unknown and terrifying strength which was forcing him upwards, pushing him through a barrier that seemed it would brook no puny mortal opposition. Something thick and vile filled his mouth. It was cold and solid, and it hurt. When he tried to spit it out, it only let more in.

__

can you hear me boy

The voice crackled through his mind.

__

i'm right here the voice you hear that's me listen to it don't pay attention to anything else do you hear me

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Yes, for heaven's sake, don't suddenly realise that you are clawing your way out of a pit dug six feet deep, shoving the bones of those you loved out of your way as you force your way upwards towards a world that you won't want to see and won't want to see you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

__

WHAT IS HAPPENING?????

focus boy focus focus focus

"I'm trying!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Words! He'd tried to form words! The crow allowed itself a little ruffle of triumph, this was the ultimate sign that the magic had worked. Squinting through the rain which was now hammering remorselessly down from the sky, the crow kept its dark eyes fixed on that precious piece of earth, watched it shudder about.

There it was! A hand burst out of the earth, amongst the clumps of green grass, fingers coiled and writhing about as it grasped at anything solid. The force the crow had summoned would continue to push the boy upwards until at least his head had surfaced and he could finally breath, but then he would have to finish the job himself.

The hand looked like a strange spider twisting about on the ground, frantically scrabbling. More flesh appeared, pale against the dark ground and green grass . . . a wrist . . . an arm . . . then the other hand appeared . . . oh, now this was going faster, this was better.

__

you're alright boy nearly there now nearly there

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Nearly where?

The man had finally stopped resisting the force pushing him upwards, towards the Voice, but the pressure pinning him from above was hard to fight. One arm reached up above the other, and as soon as it had broken through into emptiness he sensed it. Whatever was above was different. He could feel tiny shards of something falling on his hand, making everything slippery and hard to grip. _Rain, of course. I remember rain. I remember looking out a window and watching it fall. I remember –_

actually i don't want you to remember right now i want you to concentrate on getting up out here 

I'll try . . . 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ah, and here he was. A human head had burst from the ground. Male, the bird understood, and fairly young. The rain had caused his hair to fall slick across his eyes and shrouded his features. But the man threw back his head and opened his mouth and was drinking in precious oxygen. Again with the good signs.

__

welcome back boy

But this wasn't going to be a cheerful welcome at all.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As soon as his head had broken free, that nameless force pushing upwards abated, just as quickly as it had begun. Something was hammering down into his face, into his eyes – _That's rain. I remember now_ – all right, the rain was hammering into his eyes. That tremendous pressure in his chest had suddenly alleviated and he wondered why that was, until he realised that his mouth was open and he was sucking in . . . _Air_. _That's the word for it_. He needed air to live, and he was breathing it and all of a sudden the pressure was gone. Perhaps everything was going to be all right after all.

__

welcome back boy

That was the Voice. He looked about for its source – yes, sight had returned to him now. The darkness was gone, and even though there was rain he could see. A tree, and a great black bird sitting in the branches looking straight back down at him. _That's a crow, isn't it?_

yes it's a crow it's me this isn't over yet boy now you have to get out

Now that he could breathe – breathe! What a good word that was – the idea did not seem so impossible. Using his newly-liberated arms, he pressed down against the grass, and slowly and painfully levered himself out of . . . whatever it was. He knew there was grass and dirt which was fast turning into mud, but he still didn't understand what any of it meant. But that didn't matter, all he needed to do was get out.

Actually, this was harder than he had expected. He felt his arms ache and tremble against his weight, and it took many attempts before he was able to slither out of that dark horrible place and stretch out on the cool wet grass, feeling the rain pound down on him, cool and distant, but refreshing too.

__

God, I'm tired . . .

"Tired", another familiar concept.

__

I think I'll just . . . 

And then nothing once more.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Curling up upon the earth which had just spat him out, the man slipped into sleep. Human sleep, good natural human sleep, aeons shallower than the unconsciousness in which his body had been submerged for the past five years. But what is five years to the dead?

It was raining hard, but the man slept on regardless. The crow hunched its shoulders, letting the droplets slide smoothly off its glossy feathers, and watched him. _Let the boy sleep now. He deserves it after his exertions._ It watched as the rain turned the soil to mud on the man's skin, and then slipped off him in thin brown rivulets. A pitiful thing, really, the human form. So fragile and vulnerable.

The crow waited.


	4. Chapter 2

**

CHAPTER TWO

** _

Between two worlds life hovers like a star,  
'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.  
How little do we know that which we are –  
How less what we may be!  


_ – LORD BYRON 

* * *

"Would you like your eyes to be bandaged?"

* * *

What was that? Words that he remembered, words that someone once said. He was sure that someone had answered that question, but he couldn't remember who, or the circumstances in which it had been asked in the first place. Why would someone want to have their eyes bandaged? Was it someone he knew who had said those words, or a stranger? The query had swum up out of the dark, and he heard it so vividly that someone might as well have whispered it into his ear.

__

Everything's so confused . . . He remembered being in a dark place and hearing a voice that called him out, and something had pushed him outwards and upwards and then he had been in the rain and cold air and he had fallen asleep. _I'm so cold._

well you would be it's raining and you've been lying there for at least half an hour

The man's right eye flickered open. There was that Voice again, the voice that came from the black crow sitting in the tree. And the crow was still there, despite the rain. It looked like it hadn't moved at all.

__

i hope you are feeling somewhat refreshed

No, I'm not, actually. I'm as tired and I'm as scared as hell and I don't know who you are or what is happening to me. I can barely see anything for the rain and it's so cold. "Who are you?"

The crow felt glad to hear the man speak. All right, it had taken him several seconds to form the question in his mind and twice as long to choke it out, but it was a very good start. The man's voice was raspy, as though rusted from lack of use, and he was still spitting flecks of mud, clearing his mouth of the soil. But that was to be expected. Thank Heaven he hadn't asked where he was.

It was always so much more difficult when they had been dead for this long. The crow didn't have as much experience with these ones. They didn't always remember what had happened, and, what was worse, you couldn't let them remember too much at a time. The crow knew it was going to have to take this very calmly and very patiently – the boy still seemed fairly docile, but that wouldn't last for long. It never did. Some of them burst out of the ground – or whatever – already filled with rage against some nameless evil, and it was all a crow could do to direct their anger towards its intended target. With others . . . well, it took longer. But there was a pattern to the way this happened. Soon he would remember sadness, and he would remember pain and he would remember anger. He had remembered that bit about bandaged eyes a lot sooner than expected, that was for sure.

Oh yes, the boy had asked a question, hadn't he?

__

i don't expect you to understand completely but let's just say that i am a friend and i am here to help you

Could have picked a better word than "friend", come to think of it. It watched the boy as his brow furrowed and he digested that new piece of information. It was painful to watch. Yes, some things simply never get easier.

"Friend . . ."

The man understood all of that, and he understood the meaning of "friend". He seemed to remember having had friends once, being somewhere with them where it was warm and safe and everybody laughed and talked at once. But where were they now? Were they here with him? Some vague and senseless instinct told him that perhaps something had happened to them, but . . . 

__

hold that thought boy

Indeed, the boy did hold that thought and looked up at the bird expectantly. The crow knew that the boy was still shrouded in his confusion and that the thought probably would have unravelled and collapsed on itself before the dread conclusion was reached, but better to be safe than sorry. Actually, his placidity was beginning to become a concern. Surely he wasn't simple-minded, was he? No . . . just confused. Wisest to take advantage of that before it wore off. 

__

things are still a bit confused now aren't they but don't worry just listen to me and everything will be all right

But it wouldn't be all right, would it? The boy said nothing, but he looked moderately satisfied. That was another thing about humans. The popular idea was that they were terribly suspicious of everything, and maybe this was true – where other humans were concerned. But in the crow's experience, they had a tendency to become remarkably trusting once they realised that there was more to this world and the next than they could possibly dream of, and things were completely out of their two hands with their wonderful opposable thumbs.

Would this rain ever let up? It had been going longer and heavier than the crow had expected. But, as it had thought before, this could be a good thing. Blurred the boy's vision as what he had endured blurred his reality, made him easier to control for the time being.

The man watched the crow steadily, occasionally blinking the water out of his eyes. He was still conscious of being cold, but it wasn't so bad. The crow shuffled about on its perch now, shook its wings, flicking tiny droplets of rain off its feathers.

__

was that little rest enough for you are you ready to start moving now

"Move? Where?"

__

well away from here would be a start

What was here that needed to be got away from? The man frowned as he thought that one over, but he kept his eyes fixed on the crow.

Yes, that's right, the crow thought, keep looking up at me. Don't look around you, don't see that great hole in the ground beside you with the mud streaming and clumps of grass ripped and thrown about, don't even start thinking about the fact that you are naked and you are sitting in a cemetery. Oh dear, I think that's a skull lying a couple of inches away from your right foot – no, don't look at it, look up at me.

It knew that it should get its precious charge out of Sainte-Marguerite before he realised where he was. The crow wasn't entirely sure what would happen if the boy started remembering too much too fast, but something warned it that the results would not be pleasant, and would not help the boy to carry out his mission any faster. Not that he had any idea he even had a mission. Best to keep him distracted with the little things. Sometimes it is best not to see the wood for the trees.

__

do you think you can walk boy do you think you can get up on those two feet and walk run even running would be good

"I think so."

__

give it a try then

The man looked down at the ground. The rain had made it slippery, but he was certain that he could manage this. Slowly, carefully, he rose to his feet. It wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be. But then again he hadn't tried to walk yet. Putting one foot out in front of another, he carefully made contact with the earth. Everything was all right, he was balancing, perhaps this wouldn't be so hard after all.

__

careful careful careful

The warning was unnecessary, the boy seemed to be coping fairly well. It was interesting to see what memories they carried with them from beyond the grave. Most did remember how to walk – how to run, even – and how to think, how to speak and how to listen. If they did not know how to fight before they died, they nearly always did afterwards. After that, it got complicated. Once the crow had helped a woman who remembered how to play the harp but did not recognise her own husband. Another time there had been a man who could think and speak in English, but not in his native tongue, Spanish.

Now the boy was looking about, trying to get his bearings, or at least work out where he was exactly. Not a good thing.

__

don't you worry about that boy I'll see to that all I want you to do is listen to me and do as I say just walk away from this place and don't look whatever you do don't look just follow me

"Yes, I understand."

The crow gave a low croak, spread its wings and flapped into the air. It flew low and slow, staying a few yards ahead of the man, and above his head. In order to keep the bird in sight, the man had to jog along, his eyes raised and averted from the sight of the graves with their stone markers and angels with drooping wings and bouquets of wilted flowers.

At first, the crow tried to keep the man off the gravel paths, knowing that they could cause discomfort to his bare feet. But maybe it was the cold, or maybe the man's sense of displacement, but these things did not seem to matter. After guiding the man through the first section of graves, it decided to just take the fastest route away from here. It wasn't too afraid that the priest in his church would see the naked man fleeing the cemetery. The rule of thumb was: if you don't look at them, they won't look at you. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

__

I wonder how long I have been running for? 

It felt like an age. The man was sure that he had never run for this long before, but was aware that he didn't feel tired, and was not having trouble drawing his breath. The crow remained ahead of him, maintaining its speed and encouraging him to do the same. The man flicked his gaze to his bare feet – watched them hit the uneven cobblestones of the alleyway, watched the dull light reflected in the shining stones.

He was no longer cold. This was partly because he was now up and moving, and partly because he had found an old, tattered coat lying in a heap of sodden rags at the mouth of some tiny street. The crow had stopped here, advising him to wear the garment. He had obeyed – by now he had realised that he was naked.

The man couldn't remember if anybody had glanced at him oddly. He seemed to remember seeing a few other people on the streets in his steady journey from that place with the tree, but could not remember their faces or their reactions to him. Hardly faltering in his pace, he wrapped the coat around himself even tighter, and listened to the sound of his beating heart.

Streets, streets and more streets. Some of them felt vaguely familiar, but if he tried to stop and look at street signs, or painted images hanging above shop windows, the crow had called him to hurry along. But now he was fairly sure that he knew this place. It was just taking him a while to remember it.

__

I wonder what happened . . . ?

As he ran, following the crow, he thought about the things that could make one forget. A blow to the head? He remembered a man – one of his friends, surely, the one who had talked about hearts and salt and butter – discussing what could happen if one was struck on the head. He had said that you could get headaches again and again and forget entire days at a time, or wake up and remember nothing, even your name. Then another man, bald but not old, had laughed and said that explained a lot and – 

__

how are you holding up

"I'm all right."

Obviously, but the crow had wanted to divert his thoughts away from his friends for a moment. It was clear that he was beginning to remember more and more; soon the process would become automatic and he would perhaps begin to fight it. They all did, because memories always brought them great pain. That is why they were here, after all.

Time for the interrogation test – see how much he really remembered. It would keep the boy's mind off where they were headed, at least.

__

do you have a name 

Name, identity, label. The man understood the question, but he couldn't answer it. _What was my name? Why does "wine-cask" spring to mind? That's not a name, surely. Wine . . . that's something that I remember. The squeak of a cork as it slips out of a bottle, the taste of wine in my mouth . . . splashing into glasses, glowing as red as_ . . . What had the crow asked, again? Something about names. _It asked if I had a name._

"I'm sure I do."

__

can you remember it

"I don't think so."

Blast, the crow thought, the identity crisis. It was easier if they understood at the start. Later on, when things started falling apart, it gave them something to hold on to.

__

you think about your friends do you know who they are

"I remember having friends, but I can't remember their faces. I remember voices, though."

__

any names

The man thought about that hard. His first impulse was to say "No," but then he thought that perhaps he could remember after all. Voices whispered to him in the dark, and every now and then he caught the flash of an eye, a smile, a lock of bright hair. A hand gesture, the creak of a chair as the speaker sat back, their spiel complete. What were their names? All right, the one he remembered most of right now was the one who had talked about hearts and heads. _Surely I could remember his name_ . . . 

__

J . . . 

Why did he want to think of Djali? That couldn't be right, that was the name of that gypsy girl's goat in that book by Hugo, the one where everybody died in the end.

__

Did I read that book . . . ?

No, he hadn't, but he had heard others talking about it. Somebody mocked its sentimentality, and someone else, gentle and wistful, had remarked that he had thought it a beautiful story. But Djali . . . That was it! That friend who spoke of hearts and heads and always looked at his tongue in a mirror, they liked to call him Djali because it made him angry and he was funny when he was angry! So his name must sound something like that, surely.

__

J . . .

Such a sad story, that one. He seemed to remember agreeing that it was overly sentimental, but secretly admiring Quasimodo for his devotion to the little gypsy girl, when she was hardly aware that he had existed. That was right, she had been in love with a soldier or something like that. For some reason, remembering the story of the book seemed incredibly important. The gypsy – Esmeralda? – had loved a handsome soldier with bright blond hair.

__

Apollo . . . ?

No, that wasn't it, it was Phoebus. But why had he thought of Apollo? That name seemed familiar somehow, had he known somebody called Apollo? Fair hair and blue eyes, a sonorous voice that could become cruel . . . but he couldn't have been called Apollo, that was the name of a god, and why couldn't he remember his face . . . ? No, that train of thought was lost now. Agitated and more confused than ever, the man turned his thoughts back to the book by Hugo. The gypsy hadn't loved Quasimodo, but he had died with her in the end. He had gone to the mass grave at Montfaucon and lain down beside her cooling corpse and wept and . . .

* * *

"Do you permit it?"

* * *

Sadness suddenly choked him. It made him falter, he nearly stumbled. A tight band gripping around his chest, like before when he couldn't breathe. Why did that story have that effect on him? All of a sudden he remembered being sad, and he remembered an aching empty feeling inside him. Where had this come from? The sadness was making it hard to think. It felt like a dark cloud that surrounded him on all sides. He felt like he was trying to fight his way through this dark cloud and it was choking him, burning his eyes and his throat. The sadness filled the air and made it smell bad, it smelt like . . .

__

It smells like gunpowder . . .

But why do I remember what gunpowder smells like . . . ?

Because it was the last thing I smelt before . . .

It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He stopped dead in his tracks and fell to his knees.

__

OH GOD!!!!!!!! 

The crow sensed the boy had faltered, and landed on a lamppost, turned around and looked. The process of remembering had begun. That was a relief in a way, but now there was the delicate task of controlling the rate that memory returned, not letting the boy remember too much at once. The boy was in a very bad way now.

The man knelt on the ground, his arms wrapped around his heaving chest, eyes bulging as he gasped for air. Locked in desperate battle with some nameless horror he could not yet understand.

__

WHAT HAPPENED???????

The scent of gunpowder still filled his nostrils and it terrified him, but he could not understand why he smelt it. The blinding cloud of sadness was beginning to solidify and grow translucent, giving his vision more clarity than he could ever remember possessing. Something had happened to his friends. Even though he could not yet visualise them or remember their names, he knew that he had loved them and something had happened to them. It wasn't the crow who told him this – it was something deep inside him, which made him who he was, that warned him of the darkness and its gripping shadows.

He remembered a large room with two windows and a map of France on the wall. He remembered laughter, the clinking of glasses, the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet on a wooden floor. Bright eyes and bright smiles flashed in the darkness. He felt somewhat distant from it all, as if he was somehow apart from all the others. The cool hardness of a glass bottle as his fingers wrapped around its neck . . . why did he remember that?

A stare boring into the back of his head, but it wasn't the crow, it was . . . somebody else. Those blue eyes again, why did he remember blue eyes and a level stare? He wanted to turn around, but somehow knew that whoever was behind him would vanish as soon as he moved. Had this person hated him? Had he hated that person? No, he hadn't, he had admired this person but now he couldn't even remember his name.

But the frightening thing was, the man was sure that he could remember if he tried. Something told him not to try, that in remembering this, he would remember much more, remember things which would cause him terrible pain. If he dared to remember his friends, he would remember more, he would remember a raging red wind that reeked of blood and gunpowder . . .

The man remained hunched on the pavement, letting the cold rain hammer down from above, letting hot tears stream from his eyes and cool immediately in the air. _I don't want to remember any more . . ._

but you must

The man looked up. The crow had hopped to the ground and was standing a few feet away, looking up at him with its black eyes.

__

if you are to complete your task, you will have to remember

"Remember what?"

The crow cocked its head. This was going to be a very long haul. The boy was hurting, and the memories were starting to return to him. However, if he was to have the faintest hope of understanding them, he would need a focal point. Good thing there was one so close at hand.

__

Come with me boy can you walk now you must

The man swallowed and nodded, rising to his feet once more, and sweeping his dripping hair out of his eyes. "Yes."

__

It is only a little further down the street

Not necessary to fly now. The crow fluttered up and perched on the man's shoulder. It was such a little thing, but perhaps the contact would bring him a small measure of comfort.

Feeling a little calmer, but no less afraid, the man walked steadily through the driving rain. It was almost too dark to see, but this did not worry him. The crow was there, and it would guide him. He felts its warm little claws digging into the material on his shoulder, felt it shake itself now and then to relieve itself of the excess water.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They stopped in a narrow street with a single lamp. They were standing before a flight of stone steps leading up to an iron-bound door set into a wall. _I know this place_ . . . The man frowned, searching for the source of the familiarity. He remembered walking down those steps on many occasions, staggering even. But what could lie behind that door?

The crow's feathers looked slick and oily in the yellow light as it looked up at the man.

__

do you know where we are

There was a street sign, but the man did not need to read it. "The Rue de Gres. Outside the Café Musain." Two names, that was all. He wasn't sure what had happened here, but he remembered the names all right.

__

how about we go inside then and get out of this rain

The man had no idea what the time was, but he suspected that the café would not be open. In a way, that was a good thing. Something told him that this was not a good place, that he would not want to go inside. Something warned him that nothing lay beyond this door but pain and loneliness and a dark sad story he would not want to know. "I think it's closed."

__

not a problem boy not for the likes of us put your handle on the door and open it boy go on go on go on

Even though every fibre of his body screamed at him that this was not the thing to do, the man obeyed the bird. As soon as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard a faint _click_ as that which was locked against him surrendered to some unknown force. He turned the doorknob. Yes, the door was open now, no mistaking that.

But he hesitated. He did not want to go inside.

__

what are you waiting for boy go on in

Why was the bird so insistent? "I . . . I don't want to."

__

you don't have a choice i'm afraid you will have to see these things in order to understand who you are and why you're here

So the man opened the door and entered into this new darkness.


	5. Chapter 3

**

CHAPTER THREE

** _

People try to put us down  
Just because we get around.  
Things they do look awful cold –  
I hope I die before I get old.  
Talkin' about my generation.  


_ – THE WHO, "My Generation" 

It was a relief to be out of the rain. Although he could still hear it thundering dully overhead, it felt good to be somewhere that was dry, if not warm. Immediately water began streaming off him and collecting in a lukewarm puddle around his bare feet. The crow was obviously grateful to be out of the wet, it shook itself vigorously and tiny droplets of water flew off its feathers in the hundreds.

Nonetheless, the man wished that he was anywhere but here. This was not a good place, something told him. He was standing in what looked like a gloomy kitchen with a dirty window. There was a deep stone sink and a water pump. There were shelves and bottles and cups and glasses and platters and saucepans. Across the kitchen was another door, wooden this time. The man seemed to remember walking through here – running, sometimes – when a whole crowd of people had burst out of this door, raced through the kitchen, jumped down the steps into the Rue de Gres and fled silently into the night.

"The police raided this building a couple of times."

The words were out of his mouth before he had processed them mentally. Police raids. But why? This was an ordinary café, surely. Nonetheless, he seemed to remember times when an urgent voice advised them all to clear out, people had risen from tables with a tearing hurry and made for the back door as one, and he had been forcibly dragged from his chair and pulled along with them when he would much have preferred to remain where he was. _Why was I dragged? Couldn't I walk? And who was I with?_

__

does this look familiar boy

"I suppose so." Well, it didn't look _un_familiar.

__

what lies beyond that door there

"I think there is a room behind there."

__

why don't we have a look then

"Why must we look?" He seriously did not want to open that door.

__

because we must

The bird's "voice" (if one could call it that) was calm and serious. So the man walked slowly across the stone flags on the kitchen floor and towards the door.

It looked like there had been a bolt here once, but it must have been removed years and years ago – only a rusty patch indicated where it had once been. The door was painted red, but it had faded now and the coating was peeling off in thin strips leaving whole patches of bare wood beneath. He put his hand on the rusted doorknob and tested it. The door was unlocked. All of a sudden there was a buzzing in his ears, and he could have sworn that he heard many voices behind the door, rising in excitement and exultation.

__

I do not belong here . . .

The crow sensed the boy's hesitation, and knew that it would not do.

__

open the door

Sharper than it would have liked, but it did the trick. The boy started, opened the door and stepped into the room with equal fear and resolution. For all the world like a child jumping into a cold lake on a summer's day, knowing that the water will chill it to its bones, but the coolness will then become delightful.

Not that there was anything delightful about what was to come in this case.

The door opened into a large room with a low ceiling and two windows looking out onto an empty courtyard. There were a dozen tables positioned around the room, the largest of which could cater for four or so. Some of the tables had chairs on top of them, others had the chairs pulled back, as if their tenants had just risen and gone away somewhere, and were about to return. Many of the tables had lamps or candles but of course none of them were lit. Some of the tables were covered in a layer of thick dust. It looked like nobody had entered this room for quite some time. The air felt that way too – cold and dead. As if some vibrant presence had once set it humming and it was waiting for that presence to return.

What looked like a map of France hung on one of the walls.

As soon as the man stepped across the threshold, the voices echoing in his mind were still again. Some of the voices had sounded very familiar, others not so. That feeling of sadness which had been haunting him for what felt like hours now was still there, and now it gripped him again. The man wanted to weep suddenly, and he was not sure why. People may have frequented this place once upon a time, but now they were gone.

Weren't they?

The crow left his shoulder and flapped across to perch on the back of a chair. It looked at him across the room and cocked its head.

__

do you remember this place boy

"Yes. I think I do."

__

i know you do boy but can you remember who was here

He thought about that, then carried forward to the logical conclusion. He seemed to remember friends. He seemed to remember this place. Surely the two came together, then. "My . . . my friends."

__

that is right and where are they now

"I don't know." He didn't. Really.

__

you'll have to do much better than that boy

The crow looked at him. If birds could have facial expressions, this one would be looking pretty much exasperated at its charge's stubborn obtuseness. He would need to be prodded along, and the memories would have to be channelled carefully. There was only one way this could be done, and it was not very pleasant. The boy would hate him for it, but soon he'd be able to control his powers and perhaps even use them voluntarily.

__

what's that on the table over there boy

The man followed the bird's gaze. A small table quite close to him, with a piece of paper folded on it. He crossed over and examined it. "It's a piece of paper with writing on it."

__

i see that but what does it say pick it up why don't you

There seemed to be no reason why not to. Shrugging slightly, the man picked the piece of paper up and unfolded it. It was a poem, written in a beautiful slanting hand.

_

Do you recall how life was kind,  
When youth and hope still filled our breast

_

A gentle voice spoke the lines quietly and reverently, but it might as well have been a chorus of cannon fire for the effect it had on the man. He gasped, reeling, stumbling backwards and away from the table. That voice . . . now he remembered, he remembered a young face – the face of a mere boy – with a shy smile and gentle green eyes that could blaze brightly when their owner was swept up in a flight of passion.

_

And we'd no other thought in mind  
Than to be lovers and well-dressed?

_

Auburn hair . . . a frown of concentration as the boy furiously scanned a new sheet of flute music, fingers absently drumming on the tabletop as he worked out the best fingering . . . a boy who stood weeping in a dark street to see a girl with a rouged face in a low-cut dress prowling outside a busy cafe when she was obviously half his age . . .

Tripping over his own feet, the man snarled against the memory, falling against the wall behind him, trying to block his ears to the sound of the voice . . . the voice of Jean Prouvaire, the baby, the one they had all called Jehan.

__

STOP IT!!!!!! 

_When your age added in with mine  
Made forty by our reckoning_

* * *

Jehan stood in the middle of a street that stank of gunpowder and fear and death, surrounded by fleeing National Guardsmen as a voice rang out "Begone, or I'll blow up the barricade!" He saw one of his friends – a bald-headed man, though he could not have been more than thirty – and tried to run towards him, but rough hands gripped him and dragged him away, away from his friends and over the top of the barricade. Jehan tried to cry out but a hand clapped across his mouth and yet more hands held his arms behind his back as he kicked and struggled . . .

* * *

_

And, paupers, we did not repine,  
For every winter's day was spring.

_ __

STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* * *

And it stopped all right, this boy, Jehan Prouvaire, was blindfolded and stood up against a wall as he cried out _"Long live France! Long live the future!"_ and six musket balls bit into him and ripped his life away.

* * *

With a groan of sheer animal pain, the man dropped the crumpled piece of paper from his clenched fist and watched it fall onto the floor. Jehan had died.

Then it hit him.

He remembered them.

They had all died.

__

NO!!!!!!!!!!!

Hauling himself to his feet, the man faced the wall, hammered at it with his fists, as if in doing so he could smash the returning memories so they could not rise to choke him. He had begun to weep, although he was not aware of it, he was not aware of the hot tears burning at his cheeks.

Mild-mannered Combeferre with his earnest humble nature and sombre face, turned into an unwilling warrior on the barricade, only to be stabbed with bayonets as he tried to lift a wounded Guardsman in his arms. Bahorel who got a kick out of wearing red just to alarm people and liked the idea of a fight more than anything else, exploding with pent-up fury against a society that just didn't care and then lying broken on the ground, bleeding his amazing vitality away.

__

WHY??????????

He wheeled around, away from the sight of the dead Bahorel, and his knees hit against a chair. He barely noticed the pain, but he grabbed the chair up and threw it away as hard as he could. He saw it strike a table and fall heavily to the ground, one of the wooden legs splintering as easily as if it had been bone. He wished it was bone. He wished it was his bone, surely a broken bone would cause enough pain to obliterate these hideous visions?

__

I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER.

__

you must

Joly who always thought he was sickening with something, who was always asking his friends to feel his brow or take his pulse or tell him what his tongue looked like. Joly who always seemed to have a cold – imagined or otherwise – and who'd had one on the morning it all began. Yes, June 5 it was, at the Corinth where Joly and Bossuet – Lesgles or L'Aigle to his friends – had been breakfasting and the barricade had risen, only to fall a day later, taking so many precious lives with it. Bossuet with his bald head and easy smile, his stupid patched jacket, his spectacles that were constantly going missing, and his notorious bad luck. Well, it really ran out on June 6, didn't it? Two men who'd been brothers in all but blood but had achieved even that in the end, when they lay side by side with broken heads and bleeding wounds.

__

WHAT DID THEY DO TO DESERVE THAT?????????

Feuilly the fan-maker, who joked that he was the only one of any of them to have an honest trade and argued for freedom in other nations apart from France. He had a habit of putting his head on one side when listening to others talk, and his slender agile fingers were always working with something or other, never still . . . He'd believed implicitly that liberty was a right the people of France would fight for. At the barricade during the final assault he had screamed his pain and anger to the skies, challenging someone to answer him why their call to battle had gone unanswered.

The crow watched the boy as he stumbled about the room as if blind. In a way he was – blinded by pain and searing memories that would not stop. The crow knew that it always happened this way, but that didn't make it any easier. He could feel the man's agony and knew that trying to intervene and calm him was pointless. The man would have to go through this ordeal alone. Perhaps when this first assault was over, he would be able to understand the crow. But not before.

* * *

"What have you done with your hat?"

"It was taken off by a cannon-ball."

* * *

Courfeyrac the jokester, who could have lit up a coal mine with his smile or talked the devil into buying a box of matches. The man seemed to remember Courfeyrac as being one of his closest friends, of sharing wine with him – wine! That word again – and laughing inanely at the most ridiculous of jokes. But Courfeyrac had died in the end, too, he'd answered some mysterious summons and gone to the barricade and had the breath stolen from his body and the life from his limbs.

* * *

__

CARPE HO RAS

* * *

Seize the hours?

Sobbing and screaming, the man clawed at his own face and hair, his gestures wild and futile. He would have willingly ripped his own face away, if it would mean that he would no longer have to see these terrible things. They were all gone. He could not remember where he came into this picture, but now he was seeing them die. And no matter what they had said (something about a Cause, idealism, dreams that made no sense?) death had hurt like hell. They had been afraid, they had been alone. They had been cheated of something.

Smiling faces blown apart by musket balls, laughter silenced forever. Proud bright eyes glazed over in death, and hands which had once gestured so earnestly now lay limp and still.

The crow watched quietly as the boy hauled himself to his feet, eyes wide and staring, still streaming with tears. His breath was coming in ragged, heaving gasps and his hands groped out in front of him. 

__

Where do I fit into this? Why did this happen, and why can't I remember it myself, why can I remember only what they saw? Who the hell AM I? Why can't I remember that? Surely, it can't get any worse than what I have just seen.

__

Wrong, thought the crow, _it gets plenty worse_. But it wouldn't do to let the boy know that.

The man stumbled against another table, and one of his hands shot out so he could keep his balance. The hand hit against something cold and hard that fell onto its side with a _clunk_. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of the object. It was long and cylindrical, and it tapered smoothly up at one end. Blinking the tears and the red cloud out of his eyes, he looked at it.

__

It's a bottle.

Bottles. He remembered bottles. He seemed to remember himself sitting here on many an occasion, joyously calling out for wine.

__

Who AM I . . . ?

It was as if the taste of wine filled his mouth again – strong and sweet and soothing. He remembered that wine clouded his mind, but this was a different cloud to the black cloud of sadness. This cloud made it easier NOT to see, but no matter how deliciously hazy it got, some visions had still burned their way through whether he wanted them or not.

He remembered a slender and upright figure. Tall but graceful, hands with a powerful grip. That sonorous voice again, and lips that could become tight with scorn. Blue eyes blazed out of the darkness, piercing through an alcoholic haze, and golden hair gleamed around a perfect head like an angel's halo. Some did call this man an angel, and others called him a statue. But this man was neither, he was flesh and blood – flesh that was torn and blood that dripped from . . .

__

NO!!!!!!!!!!!

That memory was worse than any other. The face of this man was all too familiar, and he did not want to think about him, let alone remember him. Had this man caused him pain? Many times, he was sure of it. But why didn't he remember hating this man? This man who spoke his name like no other man did, in a voice dripping with scorn and irritation . . .

His name. He had a name. He had an identity, he had an image that others saw and expected him to live up to. An image he had taken a certain deviant pleasure in cultivating and maintaining.

He was . . .

He was . . .

Alain Pierre Grantaire. Grantaire. R. The wine-cask. The drunkard. The sot. The cynic. The fool.

The realisation was enough to make Grantaire stop weeping for a moment, with the sheer shock of it all. Without realising what he was doing, he slumped down into a seat at the table.

He remembered who he was. And he never had belonged here, after all, amongst these men who had believed in something so much they had died for it. Leaving him behind.

What HAD they believed in again . . . ?

Grantaire had never believed in anything, he was sure of it. Maybe that was why he was still here. Why had these men put up with him, with his raving and his ranting and his endless consumption of spirits? Because he amused them, that was why. They had liked his way with words. They had liked him. They had all liked him except for . . . one.

__

Dare I think his name?

No, because that meant he would have to remember the pain of a proud face that had never looked at him with anything but dislike . . . he would have to remember –

A hand clasping his before the shadows descended . . .

__

NO. I WON'T THINK ABOUT THAT. I WANT THIS TO STOP NOW. 

But it wasn't going to stop.

* * *

"You know I believe in you."

"Go away."

"Let me sleep it off here."

"Go and sleep it off somewhere else."

"Let me sleep here, and if need be, die here."

* * *

Where had this happened? At the barricade! At the barricade his friends had built, shaking puny fists and guns at an entire nation, demanding changes that would never come. Why had he been at the barricade? Because of this man, this man with his lofty ideals and his eyes that saw beyond the dreariness of present existence to something better and worth fighting for. But this man had despised him.

* * *

"Grantaire, you're incapable of believing or thinking or willing or living or dying."

* * *

The memory was enough to bring tears to Grantaire's eyes once more. "You'll see," he had said to – _No, I won't think his name!_ – this man, and then he had fallen into the deepest of drunken slumbers.

But what had happened then? Had this man "seen"?

__

say his name grantaire

That made him jump – he'd forgotten that the crow was here. It had changed position, and now perched on the table in front of him. "You can't make me."

__

you must say his name if you are to understand

So he wouldn't have to look at the crow, Grantaire looked up at the wall, where the map of France hung.

__

where did it come from grantaire

"I . . . I think Courfeyrac and Feuilly bought it. For . . ." _Oh no. I'm not remembering that. You can't make me remember that. You can't._

__

for whom

"I don't remember."

__

well that's too bad because you're going to have to

Grantaire rose to his feet and crossed to the wall. He examined the map – it had been an antique and quite expensive. Everybody had chipped in a few francs to pay for it, except for him and Bahorel. He had been drunk and broke, and Bahorel had been cooling his heels in a prison cell for a few days after brawling with a couple of drunken Guards.

Again, he felt a strong hand grip his, he felt blue eyes boring into him, willing him not to look away. _What happened to us? I can't remember, and I don't think I want to remember, but –_

__

you will have to

"Why am I here?"

__

you won't know that until you remember him

"I'm so afraid."

__

and there is much to fear i won't lie to you about that

"Please . . ."

__

you will have to look

Trembling, Grantaire brought one hand up to touch the map. As soon as his fingers made contact with the dusty parchment, his eyes closed and he fell forward into a black hole and remembered the day the world ended. 


	6. Chapter 4

**

CHAPTER FOUR

** _

"Strange friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn."  
"None," said that other, "save the undone years,  
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,  
Was my life also."

_ – WILFRED OWEN, "Strange Meeting" 

* * *

"Would you like your eyes to be bandaged?"

Had he woken up in time to hear those words, or were they still echoing in the humming air as he jerked back into consciousness? But he'd heard them all right and was curious, because he wondered what they meant.

During his long slumber, Grantaire had been vaguely aware of sounds in the background – mumblings and dull thuds – but nothing too disturbing. Now his eyes were open, he saw with crystal clarity what he had missed.

__

Please let this not be real . . .

The Corinth tavern looked as though it had been torn apart. He turned to the man next to him to ask him what had happened, and glazed eyes looked back at him, and he realised that the man was dead. With an involuntary gasp of horror he jerked up, bumping another body with his elbow as he did so.

There were three dead men slumped against his table, and the table-top was slippery with their blood. Previously they had shielded him from view but now he realised that he was sitting bolt upright and staring around himself with the air of a rabbit caught above ground with the hounds bearing down upon it.

Then he became aware of what was happening on the other side of the room.

There was a large group of National Guards – all bloodstained and dishevelled, and he could see their shoulders heaving hard from their exertions. Lying on the ground between them and him were more bodies. None of them were his friends, but he recognised one of them as a man from the Barriere du Maine.

What was happening at the other end of the room? There were ten or twelve National Guards lined up, presenting their muskets as if for . . . 

* * *

Grantaire screamed, pulling his hand away from the map. His hands were hooked into stiff claws of shock, so the parchment ripped down the centre. But that hardly mattered, what mattered was he needed to get far away from the map, far away from this terrible vision. This was different to the others, as bad as they had been. This was very different. This was something he actually remembered, he had actually seen through his own bleary eyes.

A line of National Guards aiming their muskets at –

__

NO!!!!! ANYTHING BUT THIS!!!!!! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME REMEMBER THIS!!!!!!

__

i know i can't you must remember it by yourself but i'm here and i'll try to help you

* * *

A single man stood before the execution squad. From this far across the room, Grantaire could see who it was, and it was as though the bottom fell out from his heaving stomach. This man wasn't looking at him – his eyes were disdainfully sweeping across the Guards standing before him, even the two officers standing off on one side. His arms were folded and his head was thrown back. His bright hair was dishevelled, and his eyes blazed fiercely.

This man was going to die. And that was the very worst thing Grantaire could have ever imagined could happen in this world.

* * *

Stumbling blindly against a table, Grantaire heaved it out of his way with another wild scream before attacking a couple of chairs in an equally senseless manner. One flew dangerously close to the crow's head, and with a startled caw it flapped to a safer position. Trembling and moaning, Grantaire then slumped to the floor.

__

steady on boy

But it was useless. Its reasoning would fall on deaf ears. The boy was trapped in his own personal hell, and there was no way out but through. He would have to remember this most terrible thing so he could use its power and focus his strength.

Not that that made it any easier to watch.

* * *

Grantaire's eyes widened in shock and horror. He tried to cry out then, but no sound passed his lips. It was as though no sound was permitted at all, as if the whole world was being forced to fall silent and mark this man's passing.

* * *

__

say his name grantaire

But the boy was five years away, and in a completely different room. The look of stricken horror on his face mirrored the one he must have worn back then, watching a dozen impassive figures dressed in blue preparing to destroy the one thing he loved above all else. But still he fought the memories, as though there was a chance that he could stop all this and sink back into the blissful darkness.

__

you will have to remember this boy you will have to look

* * *

Enjolras stood before an impromptu firing squad in the upper room of the Corinth tavern. All that stood between him and his assassins was a skewed billiard table, the final barricade between his life and his death. And it was a barricade which would be scaled all too easily. A broken carbine lay on the floor a few feet away, where the rebel leader had cast it when he had accepted that this was the end.

The sergeant, a dapper man of Enjolras' height and build, stood to the side of the squad. He cried in the imperious voice of the righteous, "Present arms!"

* * *

Grantaire jumped to his feet, his tattered coat of many sorrows whirling about him. His eyes still wide and staring, but they did not see the cold emptiness of the Café Musain. He opened his mouth to cry out –

* * *

Those two terrible words jerked Grantaire back to reality. What was happening in front of him would happen very fast unless . . . unless he could stop it. But what could he do? Distract them of course. Perhaps if he could make them all look around, then Enjolras would be able to flee, or grab one of their guns and fight back.

__

"LONG LIVE THE FRENCH REPUBLIC!"

* * *

__

"I'M ONE OF THEM!"

Arms flung wide, the boy stood tall and proud, his head thrown back. As if by spreading his arms out, he could draw the twelve musket balls unto himself and save the man he loved and revered. But that was impossible, that was history. Those balls had found their target and nothing could ever take that back. Not that the boy understood any of that. For now, he was living in the past . . . and dying in it. 

* * *

The cry had its desired effect. Every last one of the National Guards turned around to look, their faces suddenly blank with surprise. And Enjolras looked too, as quickly as they had. The question in his eyes was all too clear: _What are YOU doing here?_ Obviously he had been forgotten in the tumult of . . . of . . . however long it had been. The executioners and their victim remained staring at the man at the other end of the room for perhaps four whole seconds.

__

Please, take this chance, run, attack, do something!

But in his heart of hearts, Grantaire knew that that was impossible. Not only would the Guards be able to shoot Enjolras down as soon as he moved, but Enjolras himself would never move. He would stare death in the eye as he had faced life – levelly, and with the courage he had always possessed. For at least another five seconds, absolutely nothing happened. It was clear that the Guards were unsure of where this man had come from, and what his intentions were. In one crazy moment, Grantaire thought to himself, _"If I turned around and slowly sauntered out of here, hands in my pockets and whistling, I wonder what would they do?"_ But he pushed that thought away with disgust.

His impulsive plan had failed. Once again, Grantaire had failed. No surprises there. What was there to do now? One thing left, surely. And who knew? Maybe, just maybe this would atone for all his past mistakes, his pathetic faltering and stumbling in the wake of something so much better?

Stepping around the table, he began the long, long walk towards the far wall of the Corinth.

Nobody made a move to stop him. Nobody moved at all.

* * *

The boy slowly walked towards the other end of the back room of the Café Musain. His blank eyes were fixed in the middle distance, gazing at the face of a haunting shade who was dead to everybody in the world except him. All of a sudden, a wry smile twisted across his lips. "Might as well kill two . . ."

* * *

". . . birds with one stone."

But what sort of birds, Grantaire wondered. A soaring eagle and . . . and a gobbling turkey, or a great ungainly jackdaw.

The closer he got to the other end of the room, the better he could see Enjolras. He grew no less bright with the closing distance between them, but more details were evident. At first he had thought Enjolras had been bruised about the face, but those were just gunpowder stains marring his alabaster skin. The few splashes of bright red blood across his white shirt did not come from him. In fact, it looked as though he was not injured at all.

But he did see the sweat shining on Enjolras' brow and upper lip. Whether this was from exertion or fear, he could not yet tell. _Please not let it be fear. He shouldn't know how to be afraid. If it is fear, then that proves once and for all that this has all really been for nothing._

Enjolras remained looking steadily at the approaching Grantaire as he walked around the pool table to stand at his side. This was perhaps the closest that Grantaire had ever actually been to his golden idol. Close enough to touch. All of a sudden, he was ashamed, he wanted to look away from the deep blue eyes. He saw understanding in those eyes . . . Enjolras knew full well what he was planning to do.

__

He's not going to allow this to happen. Oh God, please don't let him push me away now. Because if Enjolras spurned him, if he turned to the commanding officer and said in his haughtiest of tones, "I do not recognise this man," then all would be lost. He would maybe be arrested, but more likely laughed at and thrown out into the streets amongst the blood and the loss and the smoke. But before that, he would have to see Enjolras shot, and taste the bitter end as he watched this blazing flame extinguished with a snap of Death's bony fingers.

Yes, better to die with him. Honour to die with him. _Please let me stand beside you._

He looked up into those eyes, and spoke with a voice so low that perhaps the Guards would not be able to hear it . . .

* * *

"If you permit it." 

* * *

Was that hesitation that flashed across Enjolras' eyes? Fear, sudden uncertainty? Then Enjolras smiled – a smile Grantaire had seen on perhaps only three or four occasions before, and never directed at him. A fleeting smile, as soon as it flickered across his lips it was gone again. But there were more words in that smile than could ever be said aloud.

Grantaire felt his eyes fill up with tears, and furiously blinked them away. He didn't want tears to blur this moment, he wanted to be able to die remembering this face with perfect clarity, see those eyes looking back into his without rancour or distaste, only trust and friendship and love.

Movement distracted him. It was Enjolras raising his right hand and holding it out to him. A pale hand with strong, slender fingers that were stained with both ink and gunpowder, the nails broken. But right now, that hand as beautiful as that of Christ Himself.

* * *

Standing up against the wall of the back room in the Cafe Musain, Grantaire looked up at a man who was not there, and reached out his own hand. Trembling, the fingers grasped at shadows, entwining with flesh only he could feel.

* * *

The execution squad might as well not have existed during this precious, precious moment. Grantaire certainly did not remember them. He knew that he was going to die, but all of a sudden he wasn't concerned about death. If he was able to die now, with this smile and this hand clasping his, then perhaps he'd been wrong all along and there was meaning to this poor world after all.

Very distantly, Grantaire heard the sergeant repeat the order "Present arms."

For perhaps one second, he thought about turning his head and looking down the musket barrels as imperviously as Enjolras had. But he knew immediately that he would not have the strength for that. And besides, he did not want to stop looking at that face for one moment.

The intensity in Enjolras' eyes never lessened. Again, Grantaire could read their message loud and clear. _Keep looking at me_, his leader was saying without words, _don't pay attention to them. Keep looking at me, and everything will be all right. This is nearly over._

* * *

His fingers tightening over empty air, Grantaire swallowed and nodded. "I won't look away."

__

You poor boy, the crow thought. _You poor, poor boy._

* * *

"Take aim."

The vaguest flash of silver and wood out the corner of his eye. Again, he was tempted to look but resisted . . . 

* * *

Grantaire was trembling now. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks and he let them fall, unaware that he was crying. 

* * *

"Fire!"

Grantaire heard the crashing thunder as twelve triggers were pulled on twelve muskets. He saw the flash of gunpowder and smelt the hideous stinging reek of their smoke. But before that, he saw something so terrible, so bad . . .

Those blue eyes that had become his entire world now widened and bulged with an agony beyond all words. The magic was gone from those eyes then, and the spell was broken. All of a sudden, Grantaire could see Enjolras' entire face. He could see the grimace of an unspeakable pain before those lips parted in a wordless cry which could not be transcribed into any human language.

There was pain in those eyes. Pain and fear and misery and guilt beyond all human imagining.

Then those two burning lights went out forever.

The hand around his tightened and then suddenly fell limp. Startled, Grantaire let go of it before he realised he had done so. Enjolras' slender frame was whipped around by a hideous forceful power. He sagged forward for a moment, as if he had been punched in the stomach – which he had been, if one thought about it – and something red flew forth from his lips.

Grantaire felt something spray across his face and arms and identified it before he could stop himself.

Then Enjolras was sent crashing back into the wall with enough force to make his head jerk back once before it slammed down, as still as sudden death.

* * *

The boy jerked back into the wall himself, as if feeling the bite of the musket balls. His fists pounded against the unfeeling stone and plaster. The crow heard his scream, and its heart bled for him.

But this was nowhere near over yet.

* * *

It felt like five hours, but it took Grantaire perhaps five seconds to realise the most horrible truth of all.

He was still alive.

Somehow, he did not understand, as his panicked brain processed what he had just seen, none of the balls had hit him. Had every last man in that firing squad had his musket trained on Enjolras? Had they even SEEN him standing there?

The blood still felt warm on his face, and he could taste its salty metallic tang. Enjolras' blood. The blood of an angel – a Christ crucified with musket balls instead of nails against a tavern wall.

* * *

Grantaire slumped to his knees, still pressed against the wall. His eyes were squeezed shut, but the tears still streamed from them. His entire face was a jagged rictus of pain and wild grief as he remembered this hideous vision.

__

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?????????

__

i'm sorry boy so so sorry this was not your fault can you hear me this was not your fault

* * *

Grantaire fell to his knees in front of the dead man. He tried to look up into Enjolras' golden face, but felt warm blood drip down from above like the bitterest of rains. The tears of God Himself, falling onto a garden of misery and bleak, black flowers that opened their petals to bathe in the trauma of it all.

He opened his mouth to scream, whatever was necessary to let all this pain out of a body too pathetic to hold it all . . . 

* * *

The boy's hands were smarting from pounding against the wall, but he was unaware of it.

* * *

Grantaire did not hear the muffled, disconcerted panic amongst the National Guards who realised that they had botched the job in the worst of possible ways. He did not see them all look helplessly to one another, then to their two officers, silently pleading to be told what to do.

He did not see the arrogant smile slowly slipping from the young sergeant's face as he looked upon this grotesque _pas á deux_. He did not see the look in the older officer's eyes as he roughly shoved the sergeant out of the way, grabbing for his own pistol.

He did not hear the officer's muttered curse, and nor did he hear the click of the pistol's hammer being cocked.

All he saw was the bleeding broken corpse that was once Enjolras, who had been more full of light and life than any of them, as if he were already made of the stuff of another world, a better world. The blazing sun he had stretched out towards was now gone forever. What was left apart from the approaching darkness he no longer cared about?

Then a pistol was fired and the shadows fell.


	7. Chapter 5

**

CHAPTER FIVE

**

_

A pretty man came to me, never seen eyes so blue.  
You know, I could not run away.  
It seemed we'd seen each other in a dream;  
Seemed like he knew me, he looked right through me.  


_ – HEART, "Magic Man"

For a moment, Grantaire was perfectly still, hunched up against the wall. Then, as a single pistol shot rang in his ears, he remembered a roaring pain, a blow that was heavy enough to send him reeling forward and darken his world forever.

__

Oh God . . . please, no . . .

The crow watched the boy carefully. _So the penny finally drops_, it thought. 

Grantaire closed his eyes and swallowed, fighting the nausea that was churning through his stomach. He wanted to believe that none of this was real, but this last memory was too vivid. The last piece fell into a macabre little jigsaw puzzle he didn't want to even think about.

__

It wasn't just them. I died too.

That darkness that I woke up in. That was . . .

That was . . .

OH GOD!!!!!!!

But the cry was futile. There wasn't a God after all, was there? If there had been, surely He could have given a careless wave of His almighty hand and stopped all this from happening, deflected those twelve musket balls from their predestined target, or even put all of his friends anywhere else in the world apart from the Corinth on the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the morning of June 6. If there was a God, then why was he standing here now, after he had just so clearly remembered an officer in a blue uniform shooting him in the head and his skull exploding and his brains spattering across the wall and his face being shattered beyond repair or recognition? Why did he remember the way his soul was suddenly ripped out of its cradle of meat and bone, the way his shattered body collapsed heavily across the floor like a great, clumsy marionette? 

With trembling hands, Grantaire brought his hands up to touch his face. It was there, just as he remembered it. The bushy eyebrows, the large nose, the prominent chin. The hands travelled down to his heaving chest beneath the coat. His heart still pumped away in its cage of bone and muscle. All of this had been destroyed in a single second, with a single thought. But now everything was as it was before, and he did not understand.

There was one thing he understood though – he was here alone.

The tears began to fall again, as all the events of the past few hours began making hideous sense. Some unknown force had called him out of the abyss and he had followed it to this place. He had been made to remember his friends and bear witness to their suffering. The life he had treasured more than his own had been carelessly blown away, and he had been forced to watch it all.

__

boy

With catlike quickness, his head whipped around. The bird was perched on the back of a chair quite close to him, and now it cawed and looked straight into his eyes.

__

i am so so sorry

"LIKE HELL YOU ARE!!!" Grantaire shrieked, bearing down upon it. It eluded him easily with a startled squawk, and Grantaire's hands slammed down against the back of the chair, knocking it over. "Fuck you!" he sobbed. "_Fuck you!_ Why did you make me remember all that? WHY THE HELL DID YOU MAKE ME REMEMBER THAT?????"

__

you had to it was necessary so you could complete what you are here to do

"What are you talking about?"

__

believe it or not, you were brought here for a reason and

Grantaire spotted another empty bottle, rolling about on the floor near the chair. He picked it up, and without really thinking, hurled it across the room against the wall where the torn map hung. It shattered, and tiny shards of glass flew in all directions. That was what had happened to his friends, to Enjolras, to himself. He wished for that pain again, anything to stop him remembering.

He didn't want to listen to the crow anymore. He didn't want any part in this dark little game. All he wanted was . . . he wasn't sure what. To be at peace again. To feel how he had felt when he stood beside Enjolras and held his hand in his, and saw those eyes filled with friendship.

__

you won't be able to have that until you fulfil your mission down here

"I'm beginning to notice that you speak on one theme only, bird."

__

that is what i am here to do help you with this

Grantaire looked up at it. His eyes still streamed with tears, but there was a hate burning behind them the bird had not seen before. That hate was good, that hate was pure, and he was certainly going to need it. But right now it was focused on the wrong target.

"You know what?" Grantaire said, "I don't want a part of this. I don't know what you did to me, but I want you to undo it right now. Whatever 'task' or 'mission' you think I'm supposed to accomplish, I'm probably incapable of doing it. Anybody could tell you that." His bottom lip quivered. "Why didn't you bring Enjolras back? He would've been your man."

__

i was told to bring you

"Oh, I see, so I don't get a choice in the matter, do I?"

__

do you really want me to answer that

"All right then, why me?" Grantaire then shook his head vigorously, wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and took a step back. "On second thought, don't answer that. Don't say anything. I don't want to know."

__

enjolras needs you

"I SAID SHUT UP!"

__

listen

"NO!!!"

Grantaire continued backing away from the bird, trying to gain at least a little control of himself. But that wasn't going to happen. As long as he was in this room, he would never be at peace. This room was a reminder of what his friends once were, and would never be again.

__

I need to get away from here . . .

With that, Grantaire turned about and fled from the back room of the Café Musain.

The crow watched him go, and sighed inwardly before spreading its wings and flapping out the door after him. This was going to be a very, very long haul indeed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The rain appeared to have stopped some time ago. Some of the clouds had parted, leaving patches of stars and clear black sky here and there. Again Grantaire ran through the small streets of Paris, but no voice guided him this time. He concentrated as hard as he could on the simple act of running – first one foot and then the other – but hardly looked up from the ground. Pure luck prevented him from running smack into a wall or tripping off a footbridge and falling into the River Seine.

Every time he stopped concentrating on the immediate task at hand, or tried to lift his eyes up from the stones below him, he saw Enjolras' dead face and felt a warm strong hand suddenly grow slack and limp in his. Once he saw that, the only image strong enough to combat it was a memory of Enjolras as he was when alive – but that was just as bad, if not even worse.

Flashing eyes, a voice that brooked no opposition, a habit of pacing about restlessly as he spoke, formulating a speech as he made it. He would drink strong black coffee or even plain water whilst everybody else was drinking wine. Late nights at the Café Musain, bent over his favoured table in the back corner, poring over sheets and notes and newspapers. Blond hair that glowed like a halo by sun or lamplight, and the slight look of annoyance in his face as he flicked stray wisps of it out of the way mid-conversation. He hardly seemed aware of the admiring gazes women gave him in the street, and regarded all the fairer sex with the cool gaze he gave to strangers. Firm tread, firm handshake, the embodiment of conviction sculpted in marble, a strength and grace that Grantaire could only dream of possessing himself. 

"You know I believe in you," he whispered aloud.

And then they had taken it all away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Finally Grantaire could run no further. As he leaned against the damp stone wall, panting, teeth gritted against images that refused to recede, he decided that this was possibly a safe enough distance from the Café Musain and its room of memories. He was standing near the mouth of an alleyway, the far end of which was swallowed by shadows. This close to the street lamp, though, he could see both up and down the street for well over twenty yards.

There must be a tavern down the way, for he could see bright lights and flickering silhouettes and merry voices. That was enough to make him feel physically ill – how could the world carry on regardless after what had happened? Was anybody in Paris even vaguely aware that a poor shadow of a Lazarus walked amongst them that night, called forth from the grave not by a Christ but by a crow?

Come to think of it, where was that crow? He was surprised that he had managed to outrun it. Vaguely pleased with himself, he nonetheless wondered what was going to happen now.

Two nearby voices caused him to shrink back into the alleyway. He wasn't sure why he did so – but something warned him that he was not welcome in this world, and that its mortal denizens should have little to do with him.

Male voices. Slurred speech, and high hysterical laughter. Obviously two men coming down the street from the tavern. He stepped forward and squinted into the gloom for a closer look.

Two men in greatcoats staggered down the dark street, their arms thrown about each other's shoulders. They were happy as only drunks can be, wrapped up safely in the cocoon of their alcoholic haze and thus invincible against the pressures and worries of this present world. Grantaire remembered that sort of happiness.

As the men drew closer within the circle of the street lamp's light, their faces became visible. One was much taller than the other, with a lean aristocratic build. His companion said something and he laughed, and there was something terribly familiar about that laugh. Half-curious, and desperate for distraction, Grantaire drew close. Neither of the men were aware of his presence.

The taller man turned and said something to his comrade. As Grantaire saw his profile clearly, he stopped dead in his tracks.

For one terrible moment, he thought it was Enjolras.

Of course it wasn't.

The man had Enjolras' long fair hair, perfect nose and blue eyes. But somehow, this man was also very different. His smile was broad and lazy in a way Enjolras could never emulate, and the wild glitter in his eyes was a million miles away from Enjolras' icy fire. Even their style of bearing was different. Enjolras would have forever been marked out as a man of noble birth, but he would never have slouched as arrogantly as this man did. If one put both men side by side, the physical resemblance would be remarkable, but one would easily be able to pick out the better of the two.

Then he did remember who this man was, and understood why he had been drawn by his voice in the first place.

* * *

"Present arms!"

* * *

Surely it could not be . . .

But it was.

Almost not understanding why, he began to follow the two men down the street, careful to remain behind them and hidden by the shadows. All of a sudden, he felt like some sort of hunter. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

__

where the hell are you

The crow was now completely annoyed, both at itself and the boy. It wouldn't have lost him when it was so close behind, but a gust of wind had hit it as soon as it flew out the door of the Café Musain and set it rolling completely off course. By the time it had recovered itself, there was no sign of its charge anywhere. Scanning the streets below it was offering no real help – from this height and at this time of night, most men looked alike as they scampered about on the ground. The crow closed its eyes and ears to all the sensory information assailing it, and listened to the quiet little rhythm of its own heart. Whilst engaged in this operation a strange power would protect it from such obstacles as brick walls or lampposts, as it focused on a much more important task.

__

where are you boy

There he was! Faintly, very faintly, the crow could sense the boy's presence as a burning pulse of rage echoing its own heartbeat. This wasn't entirely right – it shouldn't be throbbing quite that hard and fast at this stage – but it was a blessing nonetheless. If it focused on that alone, it would be able to find its charge. Hopefully before he did something stupid.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Grantaire stayed back and watched as the _prey_ and its companion approached a plump woman in a low-cut gown of some vile purple hue. If he had strained his ears he would have been able to understand their conversation but he chose not to. The high giggling and the drunken camaraderie began to sound like the yips and growls of a couple of stray dogs, and he preferred it to stay this way. For this man was a dog and nothing more. Grantaire remembered the look of stupid savage anticipation in his eyes as he prepared to order for Enjolras' execution. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm even though he was naked under the long coat. A strange buzzing had started up behind his temples and would not go away.

The sergeant's companion wrapped an arm around the streetwalker's waist, and the two of them continued walking down the street, leaving the other man behind. Obviously they had decided to part company for the night. What did that mean the sergeant would do? Tottering slightly, he turned slowly about and squinted up at the lamp.

Grantaire remained where he was, watching the man with dry-eyed loathing. When he looked at his man, he felt things he had never really felt before. Hatred. Anger. All right, he had felt those things before he died, but now everything was different. Stronger. Purer. Deeper. It was as if he had carried something from beyond the grave, and only now as he looked at the sergeant standing alone on the street, had it started to make its presence felt, coursing through his veins like morphine. 

__

there you are boy

Startled by the reappearance of the voice, he looked up. He saw the faint outline of the crow's silhouette against the sky, before its wings folded and it descended towards him

Already descended into the dive, the crow realised that something was very wrong. It had tracked the boy by following the throbbing rage beating through his resurrected veins and now realised its source – one of the men who had partaken in his friend's death that day. But this was very wrong. Surely the boy could sense that – that this was not what he was brought back to do. Perhaps it could still talk the boy out of this situation before he did something he would regret. Right now, that did not look very likely. The crow could sense the burning anger behind the boy's taut stony glare, and hoped that his intended victim did too. Because maybe he would then flee, not giving the boy a chance to act.

It landed on a window ledge above, and looked down at the boy and the sergeant. The boy said something and stepped out into the light. The sergeant turned to look at him. Ex-sergeant, really. If the boy cared to know, the man had retired from the National Guard in 1835.

__

what do you think you're doing 

__

Stay out of this, Grantaire thought furiously, _you've caused enough trouble. Just stay out of this_. He continued walking towards the fair-haired man, who looked at him with a slightly stupid expression of surprise on his face.

"Yesh . . . What . . . What is it, m'sieur?" the man slurred.

Grantaire said nothing. What was there to say?

__

no

That was the crow, and there was alarm in its voice. It was becoming difficult to hear now, the buzz in Grantaire's head was growing to become a roar, and all he could see was the drunken man standing in front of him.

__

this is none of your concern this man should mean nothing to you less than nothing walk away from this now and leave him here

What was the crow talking about? How could this man mean nothing when he had taken away the most precious thing in the world? Grantaire stopped perhaps two feet away from the man. He was close enough to see the stubble on his thin cheeks, the red rings around his eyes. He could smell the alcohol and blue tobacco smoke on his breath, and again his stomach turned. This man positively reeked of life, and that was suddenly an offence in the eyes of God. Besides, it wasn't as though he was going to do any real harm, was it? He just wanted to touch this man, to see what he had seen on that terrible day. See what the world looked like through the eyes of a man who did not deserve to live.

__

that is not your decision grantaire

The man took a step back, sensing through the brandy-induced fog that something was not quite right. "Woss up with . . ."

"Just don't say anything."

__

keep away from this man grantaire i know what you are going to do and it will only go badly for you keep away and whatever you do don't look

You can shut up, too, Grantaire thought, as he grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. The man gave a muffled yelp, but was far too drunk to provide anything more constructive.

Although the sergeant was a good head or so taller than Grantaire, Grantaire had the advantage of weight. Struggling, the sergeant carried his own momentum as Grantaire pushed him into the alleyway and shoved him down against the wall. He wrapped one hand around the man's throat, the only certain way of keeping him quiet and keeping him still.

__

Time to see what's inside.

With his other hand, he reached towards the man's face. The crow flew off the window-ledge and perched on a broken wooden crate perhaps a yard away from the two men. It cawed again, harsh and shrill.

__

no grantaire you'll regret this

But there was no questioning the deadly fire now burning in the boy's eyes as his hand fell down upon the man's face, and the power he'd carried with him surged into its full strength.

__

don't look grantaire don't look don't look don't look don't look

But Grantaire looked.

And the crow was right. He would wish with all his heart that he had not.


	8. Chapter 6

**

CHAPTER SIX

**

_

Pain. Fear. Irony. Despair. Death.  


_ – The CROW mantra

* * *

BANG!!!!!

The second insurgent keeled forward onto his face. What would have been his face. Smoke stinging in their eyes, the twelve National Guards remained standing where they were, guns still partially raised, eyes fixed upon the upright one, the one who looked like Apollo. Eyes in which the agony and fear of all those who die violent deaths had been so palpable, were now clear and serene once more. If one remained looking at his face, one could imagine that he hadn't been harmed at all – save for the telltale blood which was just beginning to ooze from the corners of his perfect lips.

But if the eyes strayed below the chin, then the truth was revealed. There was no mistaking the twelve bloody holes that had ripped through the living statue and bloomed roses across his white shirt. His blood, welling in the twelve wounds which told the end of a life tumultuously lived, dripped down his front and onto the body of the man who lay sprawled at his feet.

It was Sergeant Lucien Gautier who broke the spell. With a derisive laugh, he strode forward, and gave the corpse a mock-friendly clap on the shoulder. The warrior who so recently had held them all at bay with a defiant stare alone, now seemed to wilt beneath the weight of the derisive hand. The corpse buckled at the knees, then crumpled sideways and toppled across the body that lay at its feet.

* * *

Grantaire's hands tightened around the throat of Lucien Gautier. If anything, the fires in his eyes blazed brighter than before.

__

WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM???

There was no need to ask aloud – what he saw in the man's terrified, bulging eyes was all he would ever need or want to know. 

* * *

Outside the Corinth, men were carrying out the bodies of the fallen insurgents, stacking them in rows like so much firewood. Lucien Gautier stood over the body of the fallen leader as he contemplatively took a pinch of snuff.

"Come away from there, Gautier." The words spoken uneasily by another Guard, about his age. "Our work here is done. Don't disturb the dead."

Lucien kept his eyes fixed on the face of the corpse which lay twisted at his feet. "Do you suppose these men were good Catholics, Theo?"

The man named Theo shuffled his feet nervously. "Suppose so. Why do you ask?"

"Well, if that's the case, it seems sad that they died without their Last Rites, isn't it? No last confession."

The man named Theo merely regarded Lucien, his heavy brows knitted. When it was obvious that the man would not respond, Lucien continued. "Perhaps they didn't deserve it. Rabble-rousers, idle fools with nothing more honourable to do with their time. Perhaps they are on their way down to Hell as we speak."

Theo's next breath was taken with a sharp hiss of shock as he watched Lucien lean down and spit in the face of the broken angel.

* * *

The clarity of the vision bit deeper into the core of Grantaire's being than any mere bullet could. Before he realised what he was doing, he relinquished his hold on the larger man's throat. But Lucien barely had time to draw breath before he was dealt a stunning backhand blow that cracked smartly across his cheek. The blow sent him reeling backwards against the wall – his fall broken only by his unknown assailant who now grabbed him by the lapels, and stared down into his face once more.

* * *

"Gautier!" Theo's voice now trembled. The arrogance of his one-time friend and comrade in arms worried him. He knew many who turned into animals at the sight of spilt blood, but Lucien Gautier bewildered him more than any he'd seen before. Few men he knew would lower themselves to that level, mocking even enemies, once they were already vanquished beyond salvation. But Gautier would.

The tremulous rebuke seemed to draw Gautier on. The youth merely laughed – a laugh with a dangerous giddy edge to it. "What? He's dead, he can't feel it."

"Then why bother?"

The conversation had attracted attention. Some of the other Guards were still lingering at the sacrificial site, whether from morbid curiosity, or to savour their shoddy victory, or perhaps with the first feelings of regret, who could tell? But some drifted closer to Gautier, curious to see what was happening, craning their necks to see which corpse he stood over. Gautier waited until he had his small audience's full attention before he graced the other soldier with a reply.

"I'm trying to save his soul. I'm giving him his Last Rites. _That_ was the prayer for his soul. And _this_ . . . is the libation of holy water."

As Gautier began to unbutton his trousers, the soldier named Theo closed his eyes with disgust for a moment, before turning and resolutely walking away, wanting no part in this sick horseplay.

The corpse, thankfully insensible to its imminent desecration, remained the passive centre of this unwanted attention. The expression on the beautiful young face did not change – death's pallor suited the youth as well as life's pallor had – and the blue eyes, only slightly clouded, gazed at a point fixed somewhere beyond this final tableau of humiliation and defeat.

But the eyes of those who were alive fixed on Gautier as he finished unbuttoning his trousers, and urinated on the corpse at his feet. His mocking 'Dies Irae' rapidly dissolved into hysterical giggles that would not stop.

He wasn't the only one who laughed.

* * *

__

NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Such was the agony behind his cry that Grantaire wasn't even sure if it actually came out of his mouth or not. But as if he was watching all of this from outside of himself, he saw his hand spasm into a fist and swing in a savage arc towards the man's face. He saw the man gasp instinctively and shrink back, twisting his head aside in a vain attempt to evade the blow.

The feeling of knuckles cracking against flesh, of teeth being mashed against lips, and the sheer force of contact brought him screaming back into his body. The man gasped again under the impact of the blow, and lifted his head. His lower lip was cut and bleeding, and there was a look of dazed shock in his eyes. 

All of a sudden, Grantaire wanted to be far away from this man. He didn't want to touch him, he wished that he had never known the foul texture of the man's flesh beneath his fingers. He dropped him to the cobblestones and fell back himself, screaming against an unwanted memory that was not even his own. 

__

"And this is the libation of holy water!"

An overpowering stench of urine and blood and decay and death assailed him, reached up fiercely and threatened to engulf him. Bringing one hand to his throat, he leaned over, gagging and retching, then tried to hack air back into his lungs, fighting the nausea, the violation itself. He was dimly aware that the crow was trying to talk to him, but could not understand its thoughts through the cacophony invading all his senses. All he saw was Enjolras' dead blue eyes, and his alabaster skin sticky and damp with his own blood and with phlegm from a stranger's foul throat. All he heard was laughter.

Grantaire was aware that the demon named Lucien Gautier had managed to get to his feet, and was now swiftly covering the distance between them. He heard the footsteps, felt them shake the ground beneath them. He smelt the sweat and blood and fear radiating off the man, and heard the bitter fury in his voice as he cursed this nameless assailant and swung his boot into his face.

But this was the odd thing.

The blow didn't hurt.

Oh, there was impact, all right. Grantaire gasped as the boot made contact, as his neck was snapped up, and his entire body thrown backwards. But there was no pain, immediate or otherwise. For a moment he lay stunned with this realisation, which meant Lucien Gautier had plenty of time to bend over him, haul him up by the front of his shirt, and punch him in the face. Again, no pain.

Grantaire hung limp in the man's grasp, unsure of what was happening. Finally, the bird's voice cut through the buzzing in his ears.

__

look at what you've done now boy

That gave him the focus he needed. Grantaire brought one hand up with catlike quickness to block the second punch. A quick kick up and a twist, and he was relieved of the Guardsman and back on his feet. For a moment, they both stood eyeing each other. Lucien Gautier's blue eyes were wide and staring, now almost completely sober. It was amazing, Grantaire thought, what fear and adrenaline will do for a man. Gautier's breath was coming fast, and a lock of his fair hair had tumbled across his face. Features he had shared with the nameless insurgent whose body he had defiled so carelessly. But in this face, carved with its stupidity and cruelty, those eyes and that Grecian nose and those regal lips and that aristocratic profile were features that Grantaire hated with every fibre of his being. That this monster dared to look even remotely like Enjolras seemed to be the final insult in a catalogue of many.

For which he would pay very dearly indeed.

The other man must have seen something new in the intensity of Grantaire's glare. He began to step forward, then hesitated and stepped back. His hands still clenched into fists, he stood his ground. But something had changed. There was real fear now. "Who . . . who are you?"

Grantaire let him tremble a moment before he replied. "I believe we've met."

Then he surged forward in a single fluid movement, and before the Guardsman could defend himself, snap-kicked up and caught him in the side.

__

Goodness. Since when could I do THAT?

The man was flung over on his side. Unable to put his hands out to protect himself, Lucien Gautier landed awkwardly, painfully, striking his already bruised skull against the cobblestones. Immediately he began to try to move further away from the terrifying stranger. Grantaire remained standing where he was, pinning the man to the ground with his blazing stare. Nearby, the crow fluttered restlessly, shifting about on its perch.

__

that's enough now boy time to move on now let it go

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Obviously, the man still had no idea who he was, or what he had done to warrant such a punishment. That only made matters worse. With what he had done, he _should_ remember. "I saw what you did!" he shrieked at the man. "I SAW WHAT YOU DID TO HIM!!!" Fists clenched, he slowly advanced on the fallen Guardsman, who was still trying to scramble away backwards, too groggy to be able to climb to his feet.

"What did I do?" he grunted. "To whom?"

Grantaire paused. "You really don't remember, do you?"

Lucien Gautier's face spoke for itself.

With one fell swoop, Grantaire lunged down and seized the man by his throat. In the same movement, he brought him to his feet, pinning him against the wall. The man let out a rasping cry and brought his hands up, but let them hang by his sides immediately as soon as Grantaire applied a little gentle pressure about his cursed throat.

"A barricade . . ." Grantaire snarled. "A dead man hanging out of a window . . . a blood-stained coat in lieu of a flag . . . a cannon and a mattress . . . a powder keg and a flaming torch . . . a dawn which brought no salvation . . . broken bottles and broken bones and broken lives . . . madness and pain and shadows . . . oh God, the shadows . . ."

The man's blue eyes bulged. "Madman! What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about June 6, 1832," Grantaire spat. "The barricade and tavern on the rue de la Chanvrerie. A lot of people lost their lives there that day, but I'm asking you to think of one in particular."

"I remember the tavern." The man was talking fast, trying to stall for time. Finally aware of just how much danger he was really in. "There was a riot happening, we were ordered to quell it. Keep the civic peace. Those men were dangerous – looters, rebels, rabble-rousers. It was for the best. They refused to surrender –"

Grantaire cut him off with another backhand blow across the face. "Liar! You never gave them the chance."

__

grantaire you can walk away from this right now please walk away and leave this man this isn't what you are here for

Grantaire ignored the bird's unsteady voice, keeping his blazing eyes fixed upon the man quivering in his grasp. "How many men did you kill that day, _Lucien_?" The man flinched at the sound of his name on this terrifying stranger's lips. "I know of one, at least. I'll be very disappointed indeed if you don't recall. He was one of the last to die, inside the tavern itself. He was alone and unarmed when you found him –"

"YES I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember, please don't hit me anymore!"

Grantaire curled his hand into a fist, not to hit him, merely to have the pleasure of watching the man quiver like so much blancmange. "Tell me about him, then."

Despite his terror, the man was obviously confused. "Tell what? What's there to tell? He was just some pretty-faced boy, a wet-behind-the ears student playing at being Saint-Just, got himself and his friends killed for nothing, we got him in the end, what does it matter who he was –"

With a grunt of fury, Grantaire spun Gautier around so he was facing the wall. Before the man could react, he twisted one of his arms far enough up his back to make him howl, and with his other hand he grabbed a fistful of the man's fair hair, and jerked his head back. He put his face down into his victim's, close enough that he could count every blood-shot vein in those blue eyes – eyes that, apart from the glaring red veins, were so similar to another pair of blue eyes that he wanted to tear them out.

"His name was Justin Marcel Enjolras."

He allowed Gautier time to think about that before he slammed his head forward into the wall with a satisfying _THWACK_. He heard the man's agonised gasp, and the sound of cartilage cracking across the man's nose. He also heard the alarmed cry of the crow, but that he ignored. When he pulled the man's head back again, he could smell his fresh blood mingled with the scent of his fear. Lucien Gautier's stupid ugly handsome face was covered with blood, his eyes were wide and glassy with shock, and his breath was coming fast and shallow.

"People cared about him."

Again he slammed the head forward into the wall. Again, the satisfying _THWACK_.

"They cared so much that they were willing to die for his stupid cause."

__

THWACK.

This time when he pulled the man's head back, he saw something else in his glazed eyes apart from pain and fear. He saw recognition.

"Yes, that's right," he sneered. "I'm surprised you remember me. You didn't remember enough to shoot me when you shot him, did you? Yes, I'm back. That fact perplexes me as much as it obviously does you, but who are we to question the gods on these matters? I was willing to give my life for him. Perhaps he didn't want it after all. I should be insulted, really. But I'm not, I've taken worse from him and I'd take it all again tenfold if it would bring him back. I saw what you did to him, and in case you have not yet discerned that matter, I am not too pleased with you."

__

THWACK.

"I guess –"

__

THWACK.

"The moral of this story is –"

__

THWACK.

"Make sure you at least know a man's name before you piss on his bleeding corpse."

__

THWACK. _THWACK_. _THWACK_.

He let the body slip down onto the damp cobblestones.


	9. Chapter 7

**

CHAPTER SEVEN

** _

"Do unto others as they've done to you" –  
But what the hell is this world coming to?  


_ – METALLICA, "Fight Fire With Fire" 

All right, the crow thought to itself, no need to panic. This was completely unexpected and totally unwarranted, but no need to panic. Nobody had witnessed the murder and its charge had not been hurt. Nonetheless, the boy had not been brought back to beat a drunken ex-sergeant to death, and the bird knew that there could possibly be repercussions further down the track. It hoped that they would not come. In theory, the crow took no sides on these missions – it merely guided its charges on their journey, providing strength and moral support. In practice, however, it had learnt more about human suffering than it had ever imagined possible, and now it could sympathise with the boy's anger. What that fool had done to the boy's friend was wrong.

Which didn't make what the boy had done right. It was love (and a force of supernatural power, of course) which brought these souls back, but it had a tendency to blind them with depressing regularity. Grantaire had been sitting on an upturned box in the alley for several minutes now. The crow had decided to give him a bit of time to reflect on what he had done and see if he began sensing that something about this scenario was blatantly wrong. It looked like that was not going to happen.

There were three or four large empty wooden crates piled in one corner of the alley. Grantaire had not noticed them before, but after he let the body drop to the ground, he had backed away from it and sat down on one of them. He drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, unable to keep from trembling. Not once did his gaze leave the broken corpse lying on the other side of the alley; he smelt the blood hanging heavy in the damp air and he could see the brains ooze from the broken skull, gleaming faintly in the distant lamplight.

A few feet up the wall, directly overhead of the corpse slumped on the cobblestones, more blood was splashed across the mortar and uneven stones. This also gleamed. The corpse's face was turned slightly towards Grantaire, its expression slack and empty. The ground around the body was stained with inky blackness, but it was difficult to tell where the blood ended and the natural shadows began.

For the second time in his life – actually, that wasn't the right word was it? – his existence, his face and hands were sticky with another man's blood. But this was very different. The blood of this second man had been shed in the name of the first, and he had done it himself. He had killed Lucien Gautier as punishment for a wrong the man had committed without caring, and which he had barely remembered without prompting.

If he was completely honest, Grantaire had never really believed in anything much. The lofty sentiments and ideals his friends had bandied about made little sense to him. Liberty, equality, fraternity . . . empty catch phrases that had meant little or nothing in the overall scheme of things. But he'd had at least a vague idea that perhaps most men on earth had a right to exist the way they chose. To exist at all.

__

So much for that one, then. I've just killed a man.

And all of a sudden, this concept was not quite so horrifying as it once might have been. After all, wasn't he himself proof that perhaps Death was not quite the ultimate end to all that everyone made it out to be? Without being aware of it, Grantaire curled both his hands, as if they were still grasping Gautier's throat. As he did that, he recalled the man's flesh beneath his cold fingers and smelt the fear and pain radiating off his sweat-stained flesh.

__

". . . a wet-behind-the-ears student playing at being Saint-Just . . ."

Lucien Gautier had known nothing and cared nothing about Enjolras, and yet he had taken pleasure in his defeat and committed an atrocity terrible enough to make one of his own comrades turn away in disgust.

__

Bastard. Monster. Demon. 

Grantaire's only regret now was that he had killed him so quickly. Why had he even approached him in the first place?

__

I only wanted to see what he had seen.

Or had he? As he had approached Gautier in the street, he had told himself that he only wanted to test out this strange power, see if he could look through Gautier's eyes. But even then had he been lying to himself? Had Gautier's fate been marked as soon as Grantaire had seen him staggering up the street with his companion? Or had it been marked before then, when he had stood over a broken marble statue and done the unspeakable? Before then, even? When did men become wicked?

__

"And THIS is the libation of holy water!"

The voice and those mocking words rose up and choked him. Closing his eyes, Grantaire fought to control himself once more, fought the hot tears welling up behind his eyes. He clenched his fists tighter still, his nails digging into the palms of his hands to the point that the flesh grew numb. To combat the mocking voice he concentrated on the pounding of his Lazarus heart, as its racing beat slowly receded and grew quiet once more. 

The boy was beginning to cry again. This would not do. Although it knew that he knew no better, the crow could not help but be angry. It fluttered down and landed a few feet in front of Grantaire, between him and the body.

__

well that one deserves top marks for artistic impression boy

That bloody bird again! With a grunt of fury, Grantaire struck out at it with his fists. It eluded him easily, merely hopping back a couple of paces and glaring at him once more.

__

what are you going to do dash my head against a wall until it breaks

There was no mistaking the tone of the bird's Voice. It was well and truly pissed off. Grantaire was used to having that effect on others. But that didn't make him any less angry either. "That man desecrated Enjolras' body. He couldn't do that and live."

__

oh so that's your decision is it

"I made it my decision."

__

listen that man was an arrogant ignorant swine of the highest degree i'm not contesting that but you weren't brought back to kill him

"Look," Grantaire said with a sneer, spreading his bloodied hands, "if it's that much of a problem, then why don't you just bring him back too?"

I have to be patient, the crow thought to itself. The boy isn't making things any easier for me or for himself, but I have to be patient. 

__

it's not me you should be declaring war on grantaire

"Well, who is it then?"

The crow sensed the anger and frustration in Grantaire's trembling voice and knew that the process had started. A new and dread purpose was beginning to flood through his limbs, but he would need to identify and understand it before he could control it. Inflicting pain was what he was here to do, he understood that perhaps, but not on just anyone. Unnecessary violence could corrupt him, endanger him.

__

the people who really hurt your friend

That horrible bitter smile twisted along Grantaire's lips again. With a one-shouldered shrug, he raised a hand and pointed at the body lying beyond the crow. The inference clear.

__

i am going to really have to spell this out aren't I

Grantaire glared back at the crow, the fury in his eyes matching the bird's. "So far you haven't come close to scratching letters in the dirt, let alone spelling things out."

__

all right let's look at this another way you understand you were brought back to complete something yes

"You don't ever seem to tell me anything else."

__

don't give me that boy it doesn't achieve anything

The boy glowered some more, but he leaned back on the box, resting his back against the wall and remained silent and receptive. The bird took a moment to glance out towards the street. If anybody did happen to pass, the boy, the crow and the corpse were obscured safely enough by shadows, but some inner force would start urging the boy onwards if he remained in any one place for too long.

__

now listen to me and answer from your heart do you have any idea what you were brought back for

Again, Grantaire was tempted to answer "No". But if he did, he would be lying. The suppressed urge which had been flickering within him since he relived his death in the back room of the Café Musain had burst into flame and now there was a name for it. Everything was beginning to make a horrible sort of sense. And what was that the bird had said a few moments ago, about declaring war?

__

do you know grantaire

"Yes," he whispered.

__

tell me

He tried to speak, but could not. After a pause he tried again, forcing the word out past his cold lips and into the open air. "Vengeance."

It's out in the open at last, the crow thought. He'll have to face it now, surely.

__

now let's just assume for the moment that you were right to kill that man that you were brought back to hunt down a dozen or so men who pointed their muskets at enjolras one afternoon and shot him down in cold blood

The crow had picked its callous words carefully, and saw the expected reaction. Grantaire's brow creased, and his eyes and fists clenched shut once more. But it could see that Grantaire was still thinking behind the bitter mask of pain, contemplating its words and searching for a conclusion.

__

so that would mean that you now had to find every single one of those men all of whom probably didn't even know his name and punish them all for doing their job and it wasn't just them was it does that mark every national guard who assaulted the barricade that day for death does something about that plan of attack seem even remotely wrong to you

When Grantaire opened his eyes, he was looking down at his own hands, streaked with Gautier's blood. The sight of it suddenly nauseated him. Without saying a word, he rose and looked about. He could see a barrel a few feet away, placed underneath a broken gutter high above. Water still dripped down, and a closer investigation revealed that the barrel was close to overflowing. What else could be in there apart from the water was something he preferred not to think about, but it would serve his purpose nonetheless.

Plunging his hands into the icy water, he half-expected to see the blood lift off his skin and trail away in liquid ruby ribbons. Of course, though, the light was so bad that the water itself might as well have been black as pitch. The coldness shocked him and did not abate when he rubbed his hands vigorously under the water, clumsily nudging the sleeves of his coat up, and submerging his arms up to the elbows. He could feel his very fingers going numb, but did not stop furiously scrubbing.

He did not need words to answer the crow's question, and it knew it. He could see it out the corner of his eye, perched on a broken crate and trying to pin him with its inscrutable black gaze.

__

grantaire i don't have all the answers i won't lie to you about that

Standing straight again, Grantaire turned around to face the crow, shaking the excess water off his hands before using the coat to dry them with. "How long has it been?"

__

the year is eighteen thirty seven

"WHAT!?!"

__

you and your friends died five years ago

He blinked at the crow in bewildered anger. "Five years? Why wait so long? Or, on the other hand, why stop at five years? Why not five centuries?" He took a step forward, his voice a low hiss of fury. "Just what the hell am I supposed to do?"

__

i think we're going to have to learn that together

But the boy was no longer listening. Trembling slightly, Grantaire felt his feet give way beneath him and he slipped down against the wall to the uneven cobblestones. Although he was still looking in the direction of the crow, his eyes were fixed on some point beyond it. "Five years," he whispered. "Plenty long enough to rot a carcass. Good God, we'd be nothing but bones by now." Then his dark eyes found focus once more, and his furious gaze snapped back towards the crow. "What did you do to me? And why me? Why not one of the others?"

__

why were you at the barricade grantaire

The question caught him completely off guard. "What?"

__

why did you join them

Grantaire snorted. "I wouldn't say that I 'joined' them. Unless slumping at a table in a drunken coma can be counted as a valid form of political protest."

Words spoken flippantly, but they echoed hollowly in his heart. Even if he had been stone-cold sober he seriously doubted that he could have been instrumental to their fight. Even stone-cold sober, he knew Enjolras would have been reluctant to accept him after so many previous disappointments. When Enjolras had spoken so harshly to him, he had seriously contemplated rising to his feet, staggering out the doorway and walking on unsteady feet away from the Corinth – this tavern that would become a charnel-house in a matter of hours.

But he had stayed. What could possibly be left to him, if they no longer breathed? _Well, I know the answer to that question now, that's for sure._ "They were my friends. I couldn't sit on my arse elsewhere in Paris listening to the gunfire and knowing that they were killing themselves."

__

oh i think there is more to it than that

"You do, do you?" He spoke bitterly, because he knew the crow was right.

__

their fight was never yours and they knew it you would have been forgiven for leaving

"I didn't want to leave," he muttered.

__

all right but why did you stay

"Because it seemed as good a place as any else to be."

The crow's dark eyes flashed. It looked angry again. Its Voice thundered through Grantaire's mind.

__

you want to know why you and not any of the others i'm trying to answer that question but I can't do that if you won't try to answer mine for goodness sake just get over yourself in all your lauded cynicism for a moment and co-operate

The crow's anger made his head hurt. 

"I STAYED BECAUSE OF ENJOLRAS!" The fury in his own voice helped blot out the pain somewhat, but only momentarily. "You think I didn't know what would happen? I was there in 1830, I knew they wouldn't get off so easily a second time. But I stayed for him. I never believed a fucking word he said but I believed in _him_. Work that one out. I wanted to show him that despite all my other miserable failings I was capable of staying there for him. THERE! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?" Visions of blood and pained blue eyes whistled through his mind, and he buried his head in his arms, fighting against them.

The crow felt Grantaire's anger raging against it with the might of a gale force wind. Bowing its head it withstood the fury and waited until it abated. When it looked up again, Grantaire was still huddling in his borrowed coat, trembling ever so slightly.

__

i think you just answered your own question

Very slowly, Grantaire lifted his head. His eyes were still wet with tears, but there was a haunting vacant look in them that the crow did not like at all. It had seen it many times, but it still hated it. 

"He was everything I couldn't be. I think that's why he fascinated so, sick as that sounds. Noble, austere, nauseatingly idealistic . . ."

__

your other half

He looked up, startled by the unexpected truth. The crow returned his unblinking gaze. "Choose your own words," Grantaire shrugged, still feeling completely numbed on the inside. Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself to his feet. The crow flew up into the rim of the water barrel and remained gazing solemnly up at him.

"What did they do wrong?" Grantaire asked the bird quietly. "Can you tell me that? What did they do that was so wrong they deserved to die like that?"

__

like i said grantaire i don't have all the answers

Grantaire snorted again and began to move away. Then the crow's Voice cut through him like a hot knife.

__

but they're not the ones standing before me asking that question are they

He snapped his head around and looked back at the crow. "What do you mean?"

__

your friends know why they died

"And so do I," he countered automatically.

__

i'm listening

"I wanted to die with Enjolras. To prove to him I was capable of that, at least."

Again burning visions swam up to greet him, and again he tried to push them back.

__

and why did enjolras die

"Why did Enjolras live? For the idiot cause he'd doubtless been championing since he could walk and talk."

__

you speak contemptuously of his principles and yet you admired him why is that

The crow was genuinely curious.

"Because he had the courage to believe in something so abstract, and he could make others believe in it too." Grantaire almost spat the words. "He was a constant marvel to me. How could someone be so completely convinced that they're in the right? Even the 1830 debacle wasn't a big enough slap in the face to give him pause for thought."

__

but something was

The statement struck him in the pit of his already churning stomach. Grantaire looked away from the crow, towards the corpse lying on the other side of the alleyway. He didn't want to ask the crow what it meant. He knew what the crow meant.

He'd seen the look in Enjolras' eyes as he'd died. There had been guilt and fear and doubt. And as long as his lungs breathed and his heart pumped blood around his living dead body, that look and that pain would remain a part of him.

__

perhaps he wasn't as uncorrupted as you thought

Grantaire looked back at the crow, and the crow saw that icy fury in his eyes once more. "You take that back."

The crow sensed that they were approaching the crux of the matter. Although the boy was looking at him in that horrible way again, this point would have to be forced home if he was to understand. It shuffled on the rim of the barrel but did not look away.

__

your god of the absolute died doubting himself and what in the entire world did you have to believe in except for him

"I knew he was no god!" _Gods don't bleed_, he added bleakly to himself. But, much as he loathed the crow for what it was telling him, he knew that it was right. That truth was carved across his own heart.

The crow flapped its wings and cawed harshly. Its "words" slammed into Grantaire with all the force of musket balls and he reeled against them. 

__

his faith gave his life meaning and his life gave meaning to yours without his conviction what was he and without him to believe in what were you your fates were intertwined boy sorry but that's the brutal truth and you saw when he died that something had killed that faith and conviction without it he was nothing and without it you were nothing

Grantaire stood motionless as a statue and returned the crow's gaze, no longer fighting against its Voice and its horrid truth. Perhaps he understood now that there was no point in fighting – if he was to have any hope of completing his dark mission, he would have to embrace this pain and accept it as his own.

__

has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you did mean something to him after all you were the only one out of any of them who saw the man behind the marble masque and he knew it all too well

"I never understood him."

__

you loved him for what he was not what he represented but that's beside the point what you must ask yourself now is what could have happened to him that was terrible enough to kill the things that gave him meaning and purpose what happened that made him doubt himself what evil polluted his dream

Grantaire opened his mouth, hoping that some impromptu cynicism would spew forth. But the weapon that had served him best during life was temporarily inactive, leaving him nothing but naked honesty. "Is that what I'm here to find and destroy?"

The crow sighed inwardly. The boy had finally stopped fighting against it.

__

sure looks that way to me

There was another rumble from above. Grantaire looked up past the dark walls looming over him, towards the thick clouds enveloping the sky. Somewhere beyond those clouds were the stars. Beyond the stars were . . . Did he know? Where had he gone, after he had been killed, and where were his friends? Even now, he wasn't sure if he believed there was a Heaven and Hell, but all of a sudden this world seemed even colder and bleaker than before. He was here, and he was alone.

"But what does any of that mean now?" he asked the crow flatly, still looking up. "I thought death was suppose to render Man's petty trials and tribulations redundant. I thought that was supposed to be the monstrous joke of it all. It wasn't fair – nothing much in this world is, I suspect – but he died. We all did. Why couldn't you just leave it at that? Why couldn't you leave us in peace?"

__

who said anything about peace

He looked back towards the crow. It had not moved. "What?"

__

i said who said anything about peace

"I heard you," Grantaire snapped, "I want to know what you mean."

__

i can't speak for the others but what makes you so sure that enjolras is at rest

Grantaire's voice was trembling, and that look of fearful uncertainty was back in his eyes. "I . . . I don't know. He always behaved like he had a bloody death-wish and that wish was granted, wasn't it? He got his riot –"

__

i thought we'd just been through this you saw with your own eyes what was stolen from him now you tell me how he could have lost that marched his friends into an early grave and be at peace

"WELL, WHAT'S THAT GOT TO DO WITH ME???"

__

absolutely everything my boy your reliance on him connected you to him in a way neither of you could possibly have comprehended and it worked both ways you were the only one who could criticise or challenge his principles and because of that you meant something to him that the others did not

"So?" He had begun pacing unsteadily across the stones, like a caged and cornered animal that knew there was nowhere left to run.

__

you dared to hope that dying together could solve the conflict between you sorry but that obviously wasn't the case

__

No . . .

But the Voice continued remorselessly.

__

ever since you died you've been completely lost to each other the others all moved on but you and he could not – his pain trapped him in a prison of isolation and because you could not connect with him you've been wandering your own twisted path of limbo

Cold tears trickled from Grantaire's eyes, but he barely noticed them. He desperately wished that he could contradict the crow but knew he could not. Its words cut into him like razors because he knew that they were true. "So the only way I can free myself is by freeing him. Why can't he free himself?"

__

i don't know grantaire but i do know one thing

"What's that?"

The bird flapped its wings decisively, and looked at him steadily.

__

someone or something out there heard your twin songs of sadness echoing through the land of the dead and decided that you were both worth saving this is your only chance and your only hope grantaire find the evil that shattered your friend and destroy it do that and you can be with him again

"And finally get to prove to him that perhaps I'm not such a failure after all."

__

if you want to look at it that way yes there's that too but the stakes are considerably higher now aren't they

The crow watched the boy closely as he considered this. A sad smile twisted across his lips, and he gave that one-shouldered shrug again. "Well, I've certainly got nothing now. What is there to lose?"

With that, the boy turned around and slowly walked towards the mouth of the alley. He didn't give the corpse a second glance. With another soft caw, the crow launched itself into the air and skimmed noiselessly across the few yards that separated them. It landed on the boy's shoulder as he stood looking up and down the street. Not a soul to be seen.

A sharp unexpected wind was blowing through streets, scattering papers and leaves and other pieces of detritus. The clouds were thinner in some sections, and the ghostly silhouette of a moon could be faintly discerned, allowing sickly pale beams of cool silver light to hit the glistening pavement. The cool wind bit into Grantaire, but it was nothing compared to the coldness surrounding his heart. He felt the crow shiver and lean closer against him. It had been silent since the alley. And then . . .

__

a penny for your thoughts

He walked on in silence for a few moments before replying.

"I need a drink." 


	10. Chapter 8

**

CHAPTER EIGHT

**

_"And I often cry.  
I often spill a tear over those not here,  
But still they are so near.  
Please ease my burden . . .  
And I still remember a memory, and I weep  
In my broken sleep.  
The scars, they cut so deep . . ."  
_ – ANATHEMA, "Sleepless"

The clock struck half past eleven, its soft chimes enough to rouse Marius from his reverie. He glanced up at it, then back out through the window. He could see the garden, beautiful by day, even more beautiful after night had fallen, and beyond that, through ornately-wrought iron bars, the rue des Filles du-Calvaire.

Letting the damask curtain fall again, he turned and looked about his study. Or what had been his study before Jean had learnt to walk. After Jean had learnt to walk, he had laid a stubborn siege on the room which no amount of distraction could belie, charming away a certain measure of its inherent gloom. Marius was content with this, merely learning by dint of harsh experience that any loose papers of interest or value had to be either locked in a cabinet or placed as far back on the desk as humanly possible (under a variable mountain of paperweights), and that leaving the desk's inkwell uncovered for any period of time when Jean was in the room and he was not, was perhaps not the most brilliant idea in the world.

Jean had seemed fine all day, and his appetite had been fairly good at supper. Cosette had put him down at half past eight, as usual, and he'd only woken up once before his parents went to bed themselves at a quarter to eleven. Marius had heard him coughing during the night and had gone to investigate, but the child was fast asleep again by the time he made it down the hallway to the nursery.

After stooping down to pick Jean's current favourite toy – a large blue crocheted bear – up off the floor and place it back in his bed, Marius had lingered, watching his son sleep. Sometimes his love for his son frightened him – its intensity filled him so much that it almost hurt. The only other person he felt that way about was Cosette. When he looked at them both, he wondered how much love a person was capable of feeling, giving, or receiving. Because sometimes he felt he was reaching his capacity, so overflowing with happiness that something would have to give way.

Not that he had been feeling extremely happy tonight. He never could, at this time of the year, but for some reason it seemed harder now than it ever had been before. Standing beside his son's bedside, he had had to really fight back his tears. Going back to his own bed immediately was unthinkable – if he did begin to weep then he would awaken Cosette, and even if he didn't, it seemed unfair to pollute their bed with his ancient grief. So he had taken temporary refuge in the study, and sat on the window-seat, pressing his hot cheek against the cool glass until he was able to breathe evenly again, and tears were no longer an immediate peril.

The light from his lamp cast velvet shadows across the wall, and he could smell the bowl of dusky roses Cosette had placed on his desk that morning. The scent was deceptively faint, and had had plenty of time to permeate the room. It was one of those sweet haunting smells which invariably makes one think of the past. But, then again, he had been thinking about the past all day. How could he not?

A few days previously, he had shocked himself with the sudden realisation that he could no longer recall the exact sound of Bahorel's laughter – he seemed to get it confused with Courfeyrac's. It was such a little thing but it haunted him nonetheless. He wanted to be able to remember them with perfect crystal clarity, as they had been before the horrors of June '32 descended. Because the only alternative was to remember them as they had been at the barricades.

The very last time he had seen his friends alive, they had been haggard, exhausted and afraid; they had reeked of sweat and blood and gunpowder. Then they had died. He remembered how Feuilly's limp body had tumbled down from the barricade to strike the ground, bleeding from half a dozen wounds. He remembered Combeferre's agonised cry as a bayonet was thrust into his stomach. Before the final stampede towards the Corinth had begun, he had briefly seen Bossuet, barely recognisable beneath the sabre-cuts slashed across his face, backed into a corner and trying to shelter Joly behind him as half a dozen Guards descended upon the two friends, muskets raised like clubs. He had not seen Enjolras die, but he had see Enjolras kill. And as he killed, even in the midst of that terrible maelstrom, there had been a distance and coldness and sadness in Enjolras' eyes that Marius would never forget.

That was not how he wanted to remember his friends. To remember them like that seemed an insult, a profanity. But today he was unable to get those visions out of his head. Usually, paying a visit to Sainte-Marguerite helped – it was such a tranquil place. Today it had not, and he was not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was the weather; the heat and the pressure of the impeding storms were almost unbearable at times. Perhaps it was what Louison had given to him at the Musain that morning. Some of his friends had inevitably left various personal belongings behind the last time they walked out of the Café Musain. After the massacre, Louison had hoarded it all even though she was unsure what to do with it. Marius had half-meant to bring the sheet of yellowing paper home with him, but had ultimately left it on Prouvaire's favourite table, in the room of memories where it belonged.

Marius wished that he hadn't got to thinking about Sainte-Marguerite. Thoughts of the crow in the apple tree had been plaguing him all evening, and he was not entirely sure why. It hadn't seemed like an ordinary bird, it was too large and vivid and sure of itself. It hadn't seemed shy of him at all. When Marius had spoken aloud to it, it had cocked its head and looked down at him as if it were actually listening. Of course, a perfectly rational explanation was that it had been someone's pet and escaped, or been released. 

He had told Cosette about the bird on the trip back home, and she had smiled at the comparison he drew between it and a sentry outside Versailles. But he felt that there was something about the bird that needed explaining.

A soft familiar tread in the hallway brought him out of his thoughts and back into the study. Within moments, he could see the soft glow of another lamp spreading its gentle rosy light through the darkness, but did not move. She would find him.

Marius was used to having his breath taken away by his wife's beauty, but the painful pleasure of it never diminished. The glow in the hallway grew brighter, and then she stepped into the study. She brought more light into the room than a million lamps ever could. She held the lamp in both hands before her, its flickering light making her soft skin glow with an almost ethereal radiance, and her auburn hair blaze like a living flame. Shrouded in her nightgown and cambric wrapper with her hair about her shoulders, she looked almost like a child. But there was nothing childlike about the quiet dignity with which she always carried herself, or the mysterious glory of her eyes.

"I thought you'd be here," she said quietly.

"I . . . I heard Jean coughing, so I just went to check that he was all right. I couldn't come back to bed immediately, I needed to think some things through. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise. But please come back to bed."

As Marius picked up his own lamp and followed his wife, he wondered for the thousandth time how there could be so much pain in this world, and yet so much beauty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

__

I can't believe it. It's still here. And as squalid as I left it.

This apartment on the fifth floor of the once-almost-elegant Vayons building had become Grantaire's home more than a lifetime ago, in a past he could barely remember. If he concentrated, he could recall two faceless youths he had once called friends, and how the three of them had come to Paris and purchased the space with grand plans to turn it into a den of luxury fit to rival Casanova's. What fate had befallen those two hardly seemed important now, but the word "marriage" seemed to swim through his mind. Whatever had become of them, soon only he remained as Paris days and nights blurred into one another, the empty bottles piled up, and the threads holding his life together slowly unravelled.

The fact that the rooms had remained unoccupied all this time was really no mystery at all: Grantaire's tenancy in the building had coincided with its gradual decline. Countless duels, drunken brawls and the occasional dramatic suicide of some unknown artist too delicate to last in this cruel world might contain traces of glamour for the most dissipated and broken-down of bohemians and dilettantes, but the average Parisian found the Vayons environs a little too extreme for personal taste. As Grantaire slipped through the lobby, unseen by the drowsing concierge, and up the flights of stairs, he noted that the atmosphere of decay surrounding the Vayons had flourished nicely in his absence. Once-plush carpets were now threadbare and stained, cracks made the ceilings look like ancient maps, odd boots and tarnished platters (some still bearing half-eaten meals from weeks ago) were left outside closed doors. In addition, it looked as though every other tenant had passed out in the hallway before even making it back to their rooms tonight.

Only three of Grantaire's friends had ever spent a night in the Vayons building with Grantaire. It had been after a particularly wild party, and the four men had returned to Grantaire's address, as that was the closest. Joly had been in a state of alcohol-induced unconsciousness for the duration of the stay, for which he had been quietly grateful. Bossuet spent the night muttering quietly about the bloodstains on the carpet in the hall. Courfeyrac remarked for months afterwards how he still had the occasional odd nightmare. Far from being insulted by his friends' reaction to his living quarters, Grantaire had been perversely pleased. Only he, out of any of them, could have flourished in such squalid surroundings, like a particularly unlovely noxious weed extending its tendrils into a steaming marsh. Truth be told, he could have afforded something better. But moving always seemed like too much of a bother.

Gaining entrance into the rooms had not been a problem. Not because the crow had provided assistance, Grantaire had simply pulled away the dusty boards nailed across the door. It had taken him a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Then he was able to stumble cautiously across the room to the window, and fling the thick and strange-smelling curtains aside. Moonlight filtered through the clouds and the grimy window and he looked about what had been his home.

No surge of fondness or nostalgia assailed him, as he half-expected that it might. These rooms were nothing but a sepulchre now, housing something that was long-dead, the person that he had once been. There was nothing left here that he cherished or desired.

Well, almost nothing.

"I need a drink," the boy had said.

Immediately, the crow had had horrible visions of the boy stumbling into a crowded tavern wearing only the ragged coat and of course having no money. Having just witnessed the sort of damage the boy was capable of inflicting, the crow felt that a full-scale brawl was a little beyond what it was capable of dealing with at this stage of the proceedings.

So, the boy had stumbled off into the city, stonily ignoring the birds attempts to communicate. It soon became apparent that the boy had a destination in mind – but the crow had not been expecting him to return "home". Sometimes they did, true, but usually because the atrocities they had suffered had been carried out there. The boy had already run that first gauntlet, in the back room of the Café Musain. From what the crow could decipher of its charge's tortured and fuzzy thought process, home could offer no comfort or answers to these unspeakable questions.

At first, it had thought the boy was returning to the Musain. But this was not so – he turned an unexpected corner and walked through the front door of a building with a crumbling façade.

Only when the boy squatted down at the foot of a bed (knotted with stained bedclothes on which you could almost see the mould growing) and began rummaging through the chest, had the crow understood. _Wonderful. He's an addict. Stubborn, in denial about the whole thing, and an addict to boot._ So, alcohol had served the boy has his escape from reality during his life. Only natural that he would recourse to it now. But he was in for a very unpleasant surprise.

It took him a few moments to remember where he had placed them, but he found them soon enough. Flinging open the large chest that squatted at the foot of one of the beds – there were two, so Grantaire had a choice as to which he collapsed onto in the early hours of the morning – and scrambled about furiously amongst the bundles of clothes. Like all objects left in an enclosed space for a long period of time, they felt heavy and inexplicably cold to the touch. But at the bottom of the chest lay what he was looking for.

Whenever he was in money, Grantaire invested in alcohol and squirreled it away, knowing that if he could resist the temptation to drink it on the spot, he would be grateful at a later date. He'd forgotten how long it was before he died that he'd hidden the three bottles of brandy in the chest. A couple of weeks, perhaps. Maybe more. He picked one of them up, and held it to the dim light.

The brandy was not the best in the world. Chances were, it would rip the lining of his throat away. But it would do what he needed it to do – burn comfortingly within him before knocking him senseless. It would blot everything out – even if it for just a few hours – and that was what he wanted right now. And there was nothing now standing between him and this comforting and familiar type of oblivion. Only one thing had been able to stab through the alcoholic fog he was so used to shrouding himself in, and now that thing was gone forever.

Five years amongst the dead didn't appear to take away from over half a lifetime of experience – Grantaire pulled the cork out of the first sleek, dark bottle with his customary expertise.

A clatter of wings and a dark shadow he could just see out the corner of his eye moved forward a few inches.

__

if i told you not to drink that would you even listen to me

Grantaire swirled the liquor around inside the bottle. He didn't look at the crow. "Probably not."

__

thought so

Grantaire raised the bottle in a mocking toast. "To absent friends," he said bitterly.

Then he drank deeply.

The first heavenly swallow made him gasp as it burned its way down. He lowered the bottle waited in anticipation for the blissful glow to begin tingling its way through him.

But it didn't happen. The burning sensation subsided, leaving him as cold as he had been before.

__

That can't be right.

He took another swig from the bottle, unaware of the crow's eyes fixed upon him. This time it didn't even burn – it was as if he were drinking water. The cloying taste of the liquor filled his mouth, but there was no sensation whatsoever. Panicked, he continued to drink from the bottle, unaware that much of the liquor was streaming down his chin and dripping onto the floor. He drank so fast that he felt physically ill, dizzy even. But the elixir of oblivion refused to work its magic on him.

__

NOTHING. NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NO –

The crow was looking solemnly up at him.

__

you won't find any comfort there i'm afraid

With a strangled roar, he smashed the half-empty bottle against the floorboards, not caring that he was soaking himself further in the liquid. The crow squawked at the violent outburst and flapped to a safe distance. Holding the broken bottle by its neck, Grantaire staggered to his feet and began to move towards the bird. He stopped almost immediately, knowing the action to be futile – the bird could fly, he could not. The broken bottle continued to drip bad brandy onto the floor, and he was standing in a small puddle of it. He could smell it on his coat and skin and taste it in his mouth. But he couldn't feel it.

After a few moments, he became aware that he was standing in the centre of the room and looking at the tall mirror that leaned against the wall near his bed. The mirror was as dusty and stained as everything else in the room, but he could see himself clearly enough. Sweeping the hair out of his eyes, he tried to regard himself dispassionately, but felt bile rising in his throat. Oh, it wasn't just his ugly countenance, he'd grown used to that long ago. But how could he possibly be standing there, large as life and twice as hideous while others far more worthy – while _he_ – lay in the cold earth?

He saw the face in the mirror contort with rage and grief, the eyes fill with tears once more. A strange wail distracted him, and he realised that it was coming out of his own mouth. Almost as if what was happening in the mirror had nothing to do with him, he watched as his reflection stretched out its arm, pale and white against the dark tattered coat, the fingers on the hand splayed and rigid. He watched as the reflection raised its other hand – the hand holding the broken bottle – and brought it screaming down, slashing the waiting arm wide open from wrist to elbow.

The agony brought him back into his body, immediate and exquisite. He gasped as the cold glass sliced through skin and muscle, and felt the sharp edge scrape against raw nerve and bone. Collapsing to his knees, all the bells of Hell ringing in his ears, he let the bottle drop to the floor and roll away. The pain . . . for a split second it was so great he thought he might pass out. Blood rushed out of the gaping wound, he could actually _feel_ it pumping out in time with his hammering heartbeat, the pulse echoing in his wrists and temples. The blood stained the already-filthy coat and dripped onto the floor, soaking into the dusty floorboards. He could smell it, and the smell and the pain cut through the dark mist enshrouding him, dissipating it. This was what he needed – a physical pain that matched his soul's torment, and made it remotely tangible. It occurred to him that if he could slash his other arm open – or even his throat – then perhaps this would all be over in a matter of moments.

In that blissful and terrible moment, he felt peace.

But then things began to go horribly wrong.

The brilliant blinding pain began to diminish to a steady throb. His arm, hanging uselessly in his lap, began to tremble uncontrollably, and there was that strange buzzing in his ears again. Then, slowly at first, then faster, the bleeding decreased, and that which flowed out grew thicker, and in five or six heartbeats it had congealed. Before his very eyes, the torn flesh of his inner arm began to close over – starting at the wrist and working up the arm. He could see muscle growing, large veins and smaller vessels writhing like little snakes as they knotted together before vanishing from view under his healing skin. The shock was so great that the process was over before he realised it. Within a matter of seconds, all that was left on his trembling arm was a large pale scar indicating where the damage had once been.

__

This . . . this can't be.

Numbed, he looked down at his coat, at the floorboards. There were the bloodstains – proof that he hadn't imagined the self-inflicted wound. Blood glinted on the jagged edge of the broken bottle. Again, he looked at his arm. The scar grinned back at him like a mocking mouth.

"What's going on?" he asked aloud, before he realised he had spoken.

He could hear the crow beating its wings behind him.

__

finished with the self indulgence yet boy

"What?" He looked around. The crow was perched on the rim of the open chest, nonchalantly preening. Shaking like the proverbial leaf, he held his arm up. "What's the meaning of this?" He couldn't stop his voice from trembling.

The crow let him wait a few moments before responding.

__

i was going to try to find a way to work it into the conversation but you beat me to it certain physiological constraints of what is commonly termed the human condition now no longer apply to you

Why did the bird talk in riddles all the time? "I don't understand."

The bird stopped preening and looked at him.

__

how can i explain this the good news is guns and knives in the hands of bad people are no longer quite the threat they used to be the bad news is that should you get sick of all this throwing yourself out a window or under the wheels of a speeding fiacre or slashing yourself open with say a broken bottle won't have quite the desired effect

The crow watched steadily as the boy blinked, absorbing this information. Sometimes the sensitive approach wasn't the best – you had to get straight to the point, be brusque with them, even. The magical-healing-properties concept was always terrifying – and quite rightly – but it was worse if they had to discover it courtesy of a self-inflicted injury. Oh well, at least he hadn't tried throwing himself into a fire like the last one had . . . The boy would be grateful later on, when he was tussling with people who would like nothing better than to kill him. But for now, perhaps it would be best to let the shock sink in.

It watched as the boy rose slowly to his feet. For a moment he remained terrifyingly still in the moonlight. His thoughts were temporarily unreadable which made the crow uneasy – it wasn't good when you couldn't work out what was going through their heads. Finally, the boy lifted his head. The crow was relieved to see his eyes dry of tears, but the slackness of his face was disturbing. The boy looked at his reflection once more, then looked away. Then he looked down at the coat he was wearing, stained and damp with brandy and blood. Once more the crow felt an overwhelming surge pity for its charge – it looked like he was finally beginning to understand that there was no way out of this hell but through. The boy looked back at his reflection, and there was a calmness in his eyes the crow had not yet seen. Silently he unbuttoned the coat, and without taking his eyes away from the two staring back out of the murky glass, he let it fall heavily to the floor and stepped away from it.

As he moved across the room, he kicked the bloodstained bottle out of the way.

Moving with that same calmness and precision, the boy crossed past the crow and disappeared through a door the crow had not yet noticed. It thought about following him, but decided against it. He returned in a matter of minutes, wearing a pair of black trousers – evidently new as of five years ago – and a pair of black boots rather less new. He remained eerily silent as he crossed the floor towards the chest. The crow squawked and flapped to a safer distance as the boy knelt down in front of the chest.

Grantaire sighed, without looking at it. "Keep your feathers on," he said. "I'm just looking for a clean shirt." At which point he began rummaging through the chest.

The crow remained silent, merely watching. The boy was calmer now, definitely, which was a good thing.

All of a sudden, the boy gasped and recoiled. For a moment the crow wondered if there was some noxious little creature lurking in the chest that had bitten him or something, but then the boy slowly withdrew a garment which, upon hopping up for a closer look, turned out to be a dark red waistcoat. At first the crow didn't understand the significance of it, but then it looked at the boy's face.

Grantaire's eyes were wide and staring, and the breath had caught in his throat. Completely numbed, he held the waistcoat in trembling hands as if it were the Shroud of Turin, unable to believe that it was still here. He could have sworn that he'd thrown it out after that terrible day in April 1832.

* * *

There was a simple reason why Grantaire had professed to be so capable of what Enjolras required – he simply had not expected Enjolras to take his offer seriously. Consequently he had had to work hard to cover up his dismay when the man had uttered those fateful words, "I'll give you a trial." As he ran at breakneck speed back to his apartment to find the waistcoat, he had tried to convince himself that he was perhaps capable of what he had claimed. That perhaps there was a chance to redeem himself in Enjolras' eyes, or at least start to. He looked at the other man carefully as he showed him the red waistcoat and marched resolutely out the door once more, but had been unable to read anything in his expression. 

All the way to the Barriere du Maine, he tried to formulate what he could possibly say to the men there when he believed in none of it himself. The idea was utterly ridiculous and he knew it – surely Enjolras knew it as well. Indeed, he considered giving up the idea altogether and just not returning to the Musain for a sensible period of time. But that thought was intolerable. Surely he could say _something_ to the workers. Either that or bribe the whole room of them into telling Enjolras that he'd said something.

The workers in the Café Richeau fell silent as Grantaire strode through the door. Many of them knew him, and he saw smirks and raised eyebrows at the sight

of his uncharacteristic getup.

"What's this?" a hulk of a man named Richards chuckled. "The golden boy got drunkards running his errands now, eh?"

The remark was made in jest, but it struck home just the same. In that moment, Grantaire became supremely aware how hopeless the task ahead was. It came down to a choice between surrendering gracefully or embarrassing himself further. Not a difficult choice, really. Enjolras would be furious, but he'd been furious before, hadn't he? So, he pulled up a chair at Richards' table, and joined in the game of dominoes. _Why should I care what Enjolras thinks?_ he asked himself resentfully. _He doesn't care about me, so why the hell should I care about him?_

But life was hardly that simple.

That night after returning home, he tore the waistcoat off in anger and stuffed it into the chest. He then flung himself onto the bed and spent the night replaying the day's events over and over in his head, knowing how nothing could have been changed.

Against his better judgement, he returned to the Musain the next day, fully aware that Enjolras would be there. Glances from the others informed him that news of what had happened the previous afternoon had spread – glances that were knowing, amused, horrified and concerned – but he maintained his confident swagger, whilst inwardly wondering what Enjolras would do when he registered the failed experiment had walked through the door. He steeled himself for a barrage of insults or reprimands – perhaps today was the day that Enjolras would resort to physical violence.

Enjolras was speaking to Combeferre when Grantaire entered. Grantaire hovered expectantly, he all but cleared his throat to herald his presence. Finally, Enjolras turned around in his seat to regard the new arrival. He looked at Grantaire for perhaps all of two seconds, then turned around again and went back to his conversation.

He didn't speak to Grantaire, or even look at him, for a week.

* * *

The boy was rocking back and forth on his heels, his face buried in the cool, soft cloth. Perched on the bedpost, the crow looked down at him with a certain measure of sympathy. The vision had been startling in its clarity, and the boy had not been expecting it either.

__

he meant the world to you didn't he

Grantaire's voice was muffled by the fabric. "He _was_ the world to me."

__

a >world worth fighting for

Finally, Grantaire lifted his head. His dark eyes were still wet with tears as he regarded the crow for a moment. Then he rose to his feet, swiftly and silently. Crossing back to the centre of the room, he stood in front of the mirror and regarded his reflection once more. This time there was no rancour, only a grim determination. No point fighting against any of this anymore. The time to prove himself had come. _No way out but through . . ._ The dark eyes bore back into him, and he saw the flames leaping behind them.

The fabric whispered through his fingers, and now he knew what he had to do. Slowly and carefully, he donned the waistcoat, and felt the material slide comfortingly across his cold skin. Adjusting it across his shoulders, he kept his eyes fixed on his reflection as he smiled wryly. Still didn't look remotely like a revolutionary despite the colouring. Red and black. They'd been the colours of Enjolras' world – and now they were the colours of his.

"The last time I wore this, I'm afraid I disappointed you rather," he said aloud. Then he swallowed. "But I won't do it again. That is a promise."

His second-best greatcoat, also black, was hanging on a hook on the wall. Taking it off, he shook the dust off it before putting it on. He'd need it – chances were it would start raining again. Giving his reflection one last dispassionate glance, he turned and made for the door. The crow flapped after him, landing on his shoulder once more. He didn't need to tell it that he would never return to this place.

The crow felt the new sense of purpose surging through Grantaire's body, a new heat building behind his eyes and burning in his heart. The second phase had begun.

__

did anybody ever tell you red's your colour

As he strode down the hall towards the stairs, Grantaire laughed a short, terrible laugh. "It wasn't mine. It was his."

__

same thing now

"Sure looks that way to me."


	11. Chapter 9

**

CHAPTER NINE

** _

"Now, let me tell you about a story –  
It's about a man consumed with vice.  
He's theosophical in nature,  
And hedonistic in disguise.  
And all his life he's been wandering,  
Looking for teachers with the keys.  
Nothing found, still searching for sound."  


_ – THE TEA PARTY, "Underground" 

* * *

The lamplight reflected off the rim of Grantaire's glass, and he admired the glow radiating through the wine it held. The evening had been an entirely pleasant affair. A couple of weeks earlier, Courfeyrac had run into two friends he hadn't seen for "simply ages", and since then the four of them had dined together several times. Courfeyrac's taste in friends was simultaneously eclectic and impeccable, but these two were something else altogether. Grantaire had decided within moments of the initial introduction that he liked them. He supposed the feeling had been mutual – they'd never yet made excuses not to meet with him. His consumption of alcohol had given them pause at first; the younger one had spent the dessert course earnestly lecturing him on the dangers of alcohol poisoning, but relented when Grantaire pointed out it was as good a way to go as any.

Tonight they were dining at Mere Saguet's, on the advice of Grantaire. So far there hadn't been any complaints about the house speciality – broiled fowl in white sauce with sautéed mushrooms. It was about half past nine and he was supposed to meet some other people in a nearby tavern at ten – but he didn't want to. 

Mere Saguet's was always a sure bet if you wanted a savoury and filling meal, and the wine was good too. To say nothing of the company. As he poured himself another glass, it occurred to him that he hadn't felt this comfortable around people for a very long time. People had a tendency to either bore him horribly or overwhelm him completely. But he could think of nothing more pleasant than spending an evening with these three. Yes, the others could wait. Chances were, they'd forget to turn up anyway.

Taking a moment to savour the taste of the wine in his mouth, he leaned back in his chair and watched the world go by, keeping half an ear open to the conversation going on around him. Courfeyrac was wiping sauce off his plate with a crust of bread, his warm dark eyes flickering between the two men sitting opposite him. The two students lived together, apparently, and everything about them was redolent with the easy intimacy of long friendship. The current topic of conversation was a play they had seen the night before.

"Terrible, terrible, terrible," the bald one was saying. "If it wasn't for Adeline, I'd have left before Act Two was over."

"She could have stayed with me," his friend remarked mildly. "I thought it was all right." He drew his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his nose with it, for perhaps the twentieth time during the meal.

"You would," Bossuet remarked good-naturedly. He then took a sip of wine and winked at Courfeyrac and Grantaire. "Take my advice – don't waste your money. Just read the thing instead. Anyway, it hardly matters. I doubt Mademoiselle Adeline will be accompanying us to the theatre again."

"Wait a minute." Courfeyrac looked confused. "What happened to the little Italian girl with the huge eyes – Suzetta, was it?"

Bossuet shook his head, gesturing with a forkful of chicken. "No, Suzetta was Joly's girl, last month. Adeline's my girl, this month. Or, was." He glared pointedly at his companion. "I begged you not to sit with us."

"There wasn't anywhere else!" Joly protested. "That wasn't my fault."

"You kept sniffling the entire way through."

"Well, you're the one who spilt the strawberry ice down her gown. Then used my handkerchief to wipe it off. If all you got at the end of the night was her door in your face, don't blame me."

Courfeyrac looked from one to the other, shaking his head in amusement. "Remind me why you two get on so well again?"

Bossuet glowered good-naturedly at Joly, and flicked a crumb in his general direction. "I ask myself that question every day. And here's another question: When's the next singlestick display? Because this is something that I simply have to see."

It took Grantaire a moment before he realised the question had been directed at him. "In the Comte de Dechesne-Chéron's salon, nine o'clock, Thursday night, I think."

Joly blinked at the man slouched across the table from him, with his rumpled coat, creased cravat and tousled shock of hair. "And they let you in?"

"They let him in because he's _good_," Courfeyrac replied for his friend, and Grantaire was mildly relieved. Truth be told, he hadn't been in training for a while. "I've seen him. Trust me. My God," he turned to Grantaire, eyes sparkling, "do you remember that poor fop Michel whatshisname –" All of a sudden, his eyes snapped to a space just over Grantaire's shoulder, and his voice and face changed expression. "Combeferre?"

It appeared that Michel Whatshisname would remain forgotten for the time being. The other three men followed Courfeyrac's gaze, and saw a slender bespectacled man in a well-cut grey coat at the bar across the room. This was obviously Combeferre, for he smiled and waved to Courfeyrac, and mouthed "Good evening."

Courfeyrac leaned back a little further in his seat and cupped a hand around his mouth. "You coming or going?" he called.

Combeferre obviously didn't comprehend the question through the din of the room, as he cocked his head and raised his eyebrows quizzically. He pointed towards the staircase leading to the upper room, and Grantaire thought he caught the words, "I'm here with someone." Then, with more clarity, "Wait a minute."

Courfeyrac gave him another wave, then turned back to the others. "Eduard Combeferre. He's doing a history course, amongst other things. If you ever find yourself in a class with him, befriend him. He always takes notes." 

Bossuet nodded. "The name rings a bell – I actually think I _was_ in a class with him, last year." He frowned, examining the other man. "So that's what he looks like. Never seen his face. Always had it buried in a book, as I recall."

Eduard Combeferre was now making his way across the room toward their table. As it turned out, he did have a book – tucked under his arm. Up close, he revealed himself to be a handsome-faced young man with smooth dark hair and grey eyes that shone with an understated intelligence from behind his wire-framed spectacles. Indisputably mild in appearance, there was nonetheless something about him that breathed of a quiet, self-assured confidence. He clasped Courfeyrac's proffered hand warmly. "Hello. Haven't seen you around in a while."

"I dropped Russian Imperialism." Judging by his countenance, Courfeyrac was completely without regret. "Another week under Chantereau and I'd have gone mad."

"That explains it."

"Good to see you again." Courfeyrac nodded around the table. "Meet my friends – the bald one's Bossuet, the one blowing his nose is Joly, and the one with the wine bottle and bad posture is Grantaire." Handshakes and nodded hellos were exchanged. He then gestured to the standing man. "Gentlemen, this is Eduard Combeferre. He's an intellectual – but don't hold it against him."

"No, please don't." The words were spoken with good humour, and without further ado, Combeferre sat down. "I'm sorry, I shan't be able to stay long. I'm here with a friend from back home. He's new in town."

"Studying?" Courfeyrac inquired.

"But of course." Combeferre smiled slightly. "Law."

"Oh dear," Bossuet groaned. "As if there weren't enough of us already. Someone ought to call for a cull."

"I'll do it," Grantaire offered. "With my singlestick. I'll stand outside the university gates and take a swipe at every fifth student that enters or exits." Combeferre was blinking at him, a little taken aback, so he gave a one shouldered shrug to make it clear he was only jesting. "Or not."

"Oh." Combeferre obviously didn't know where to take that one next. He nodded to Joly. "You doing law too?"

"No." Joly shook his head. "Medicine."

"He's not doing medicine," Grantaire interjected. "Medicine's doing _him_. I've only known him for two weeks, and nearly every day he's come up with something new to suffer from." Joly looked a little hurt, but a wink reassured him that the other man wasn't being entirely serious. Grantaire turned back to Combeferre. "If your friend wants to taste the real Paris, then I'm the party to address, if I don't say so myself. Would you like to fall in with our motley crew tonight?"

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac. "Where are you going?"

Courfeyrac shrugged. "Wherever Grantaire takes us."

"I've learned that you have the most fun when you don't know where you're going next," Grantaire explained. "Order isn't the only thing that comes out of chaos, it's only the dullest."

Combeferre looked a little uneasy, and resettled his spectacles on his nose. "Well, we were planning to catch the public lecture about social reform by Professor Hamilton, the writer from London."

Grantaire blinked. "Please tell me that was a joke."

"Why is that funny? Do you know who Hamilton is?"

"A very qualified gentleman," Grantaire nodded. "Married to the lady poet, I believe – which I suppose makes him qualified enough to discuss human misery." Combeferre opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced with an upraised hand. "But why do you need a reedy-voiced stick insect imported from England to tell you what a horrible world we live in? If you haven't realised it already, I envy you your naivety; and if you have, I commend you on your perceptiveness." He poured himself another glass of wine. "Why don't you and your friend come out with us tonight? If it's really so important, we'll find you some beggar lying in the gutter and he can tell you about the mind-boggling banality of it all. Or, after a few more of these –" and he tossed off the second glass as quickly as the first, "– I'll do it myself."

"He'll do it anyway, and with great pleasure, if you don't shut him up soon." Courfeyrac gave Combeferre a pat on the shoulder. "If you and your friend have plans, fine. Some other night, eh?" He glanced up the staircase. "He's not waiting for you, is he?"

Combeferre followed his gaze. "No, I told him to come down when he's ready. Either he's a very poor guest, or I'm a very poor host. He spent the entire meal talking to everyone in the room except for me." There was no rancour in his voice. "He's either monosyllabic, or holding whole crowds captive."

"You know each other well?" Bossuet inquired.

"Our families know each other. Engaged in the odd inter-marriage pre Terror. He and I did a bit of running around together as children. You know how it is. I received commandment from on high to puppy-walk him through his first few months here. Not that he's actually required much in the way of puppy-walking."

"Where are you from?" Joly absent-mindedly rubbed the tip of his nose with his cane. "Provence?"

Combeferre nodded. "Yes, Marseilles. Thought I'd lost most of my accent."

"You have. I have family in Provence, that's how I know. But I'm from Limoges. Don't believe anything you've heard about Limoges – it's the most boring place imaginable. Looks like we're all from the south, then. Except L'Aigle here."

Combeferre looked confused again. "Forgive me, I thought your name was Bossuet."

Bossuet smiled the smile of a man who has been required to tell the same story again and again and doesn't wholly dislike it. "Family pun. My father was nicknamed Lesgueules, which somehow changed into L'Aigle, but was spelt L-e-s-g-l-e-s on a petition asking the king for a postmaster-ship at Meaux."

Combeferre's laughter was immediate and delighted. "So, Eagle of Words, which of your three names do you answer to, then?"

Bossuet shrugged and smiled. "Any of the three. But I digress – yes, it appears that most of us aren't regional by birth."

"I am."

Heads turned toward Grantaire. 

"I thought you were from Bordeaux," Courfeyrac remarked.

"Not born there, though. It's true Parisian sludge that runs through my veins. Second of three children; the family moved to the country after the birth of the third, due to Mother's delicate health. In theory – and on paper, in letters home to the parents – I'm studying here."

"And spending your allowance on anything apart from textbooks. I know how it works." Courfeyrac turned back to the newcomer. "I shouldn't have introduced you to this lot, come to think of it. They could be a most unsavoury influence. I can feel myself growing more and more corrupt with every hour I spend with them and my God, that is the most revoltingly handsome man I've ever seen."

The latter half of the phrase was completely unexpected, and apparently unrelated to the subject at hand. Then everybody else realised that Courfeyrac's gaze had returned to the staircase, and four other pairs of eyes followed the same direction. Although Mère Saguet's was full tonight, it was immediately obvious who Courfeyrac was referring to. The party of four was stunned into silence for a moment, and remained uncomprehending as Combeferre made direct eye contact with the subject and called out, "Enjolras, over here."

The youth in question heard him, nodded, and began making his way over, leaving at least two seconds of silence in his immediate wake. Grantaire swallowed his mouthful of wine hastily, and nearly choked upon it. Courfeyrac had put it well – the man was handsome, revoltingly so, and walked with the unmistakable bearing of an aristocrat by long lineage. But he bore his beauty uncannily; as if it were a coat he could shrug off at any moment, something he hardly thought about, something that counted for nothing. His clothing, though of good fabric, was hardly sensational in design. His shirt was simple, and his cravat plain black and tied in a straightforward knot. But all of this somehow merely enhanced the extraordinary figure. In those first few seconds, Grantaire numbly attempted to explain what he saw, and how it connected to what he felt. What he saw was a boy who looked all of seventeen, tall and slender, and he wanted to use the word "fragile" to describe him, because that is how an angelically beautiful fair-haired youth should be described.

But "fragile" was definitely not the word for it. Something in the youth's blue eyes spoke of an inner strength that belied and undermined his outward appearance. Normally, Grantaire would have written him off as another pretty-boy and thought no more of it, but that was impossible here. His sheer luminescence wasn't merely physical. Something Grantaire could not quite put his finger on seemed to radiate out of the man: it lit him up from within and burned out of his eyes, even from the other side of the room. In retrospect, Grantaire would come to realise that, for him, those few seconds were stretched and frozen and suspended in time forever – to be eternally mused upon, philosophised about, and perhaps one day even explained.

He watched as Enjolras walked across the floor of a noisy bistro and into his life, and would replay the incident over and over a thousand times or more in years to come. He would recall – or seem to recall – a chill creeping through him, and black feathered wings beating in his mind, and a soft voice whispering _Destiny's a strumpet, but she picks her entourage well, eh lad?_

* * *

But that was eleven years ago – almost half a lifetime and so much more. He had met Enjolras in the autumn of 1826, and by the summer of 1827 a group of young men had already adopted the back room of the Musain, and were already calling themselves – first with humour and then with gravity as the name gradually stuck – the Friends of the ABC. _Eleven years_ . . . When he muttered the words aloud, they made no real sense. Grantaire knew that if someone had uttered the phrase "Eleven years down the track . . ." to him, he would have immediately lost interest and ceased to pay attention. Over a decade away. Hardly worth thinking about. The Friends of the ABC had been active for five years and all of a sudden that seemed obscenely long, five whole years taken out of the lives of a handful of youths who, if things had been different, would still be alive today, possibly entering the most interesting phases of existence.

* * *

"I'm not one for making false promises," Enjolras said. "Our triumph won't be immediate and the battle won't be straightforward. From now on you will live double lives, one in the open and one in subterfuge. When those lives coalesce, they'll coalesce with a vengeance." He paused for a moment and looked down at his hands. "I cannot guarantee you longevity, or even immediate safety."

The room was silent, save for the creak of Bahorel's chair as he leaned back in it. Grantaire looked quickly across at him, but the burly man was quiet and attentive. Bahorel had burst into the Musain one day, a barrel-chested, shock-haired stranger, and marched straight up to Enjolras and rumbled down at him, "I was tearing up the paving-stones before your voice broke, boy, so what's your game?" Bahorel declaimed to anyone who'd listen that he had no plans to fall in with some featherweight who'd probably leave Paris and his cause as soon as his parents called him home again – but continued to show up at the Musain week after week.

There were perhaps fifteen young men sitting in the back room today. In later months the number of core members would diminish, but today they were here because Enjolras had asked them to be. All except for Grantaire. He looked around the room and watched as the listeners regarded the speaker with the same level, candid gaze with which he regarded them.

It had taken perhaps a fortnight for Grantaire to realise that the blond-haired youth from Marseilles had an agenda, and when his three friends began cancelling other engagements to meet up with him in the unfashionable Café Musain, he had followed curiously. During those first few weeks – and how he would regret it later – Grantaire had felt there to be no real cause for alarm. He had seen more than one friend of a friend come bounding into Paris already up in political arms and eventually come to realise that Paris is a hard city to maintain a sense of idealism in. He had also seen charlatans, men looking to amass supporters for whatever reason and trying it through politics. But it soon became clear that whatever his true goal might be, Justin Enjolras was deadly serious about attaining it.

Now he was standing before them, offering them something Grantaire was not sure he could define. _I should get up and leave right now_, Grantaire thought to himself, _and try to convince the others to do the same. I still can't work out what his agenda is, and that's a warning if ever there was one._

Enjolras looked back up at the room of open faces. "I guarantee you this, however: we can make things change. My faith in that is unshakeable. Revolution has never been solely the realm of the educated and the intellectual. But it is our duty to act upon our beliefs and let those in power know that we know the unjust state of our country. The cries of the downtrodden, the destitute, the starving, fall upon deaf ears – so we must make that cry our own. At first it will be stifled, muted, no more than a dissatisfied murmur that barely reaches the higher echelons of power. But we will turn that murmur into a roar and our challenge will be one that the government cannot fail to acknowledge. This can only be done if we work together."

The young man sitting at Grantaire's table smiled faintly, ruefully. Grantaire glanced at him. Feuilly worked long hours to pay his way through university, and spent what little recreational time he had in writing and distributing political notices of his own. One of them had fallen into Enjolras' hands and an invitation to the back room of the Musain had swiftly followed. Grantaire knew of Feuilly – he'd seen him haranguing drinkers in taverns and passers-by on cold street corners – and knew that the young man had been trying to whip up a little support of his own. He had been surprised that Feuilly would want to fall in with somebody else, but like Bahorel, Feuilly had returned to the café time and time again.

Grantaire himself had returned time and time again. At first it was curiosity – if Courfeyrac and the others were going to be part of something then he wanted to be part of it too. But the more he scrutinised Enjolras, the more he felt that there was something staring him in the face that he was somehow missing. The youth's forthrightness could have been disarming, but it quickly became clear that Enjolras would allow no man, woman or child to take liberties of any sort with him. It did not take Grantaire long to realise that Enjolras disliked him, and he took a perverse satisfaction in the fact.

"He doesn't suffer fools gladly," Combeferre had felt obliged to say to Grantaire in a low voice during those first few weeks. Grantaire had been stung, and then riled. He tried his utmost not to think about him but that became an impossibility. Enjolras was becoming a part of his friend's lives, and a part of his own, with a speed that was bewildering and not a little frightening.

At first he thought that politics was just another passing fancy that Courfeyrac was toying with, but this turned out not to be the case. When he unwisely suggested it, Courfeyrac had been infuriated and insulted – rightly so – and the two friends had quarrelled. Now the same Courfeyrac looked up at the tall fair-haired youth, and there was a steely glint in his eye that Grantaire had never seen before. "We are with you," he said simply. "Always."

There was a rumble of assent around the room and Grantaire looked swiftly back at Enjolras. Enjolras was unsmiling.

"If that was a pledge of eternal loyalty, take it back."

A slightly stunned silence followed. Courfeyrac's gaze wavered. Enjolras' did not.

"I didn't come here to build a cult. You are here as equals, men of courage and faith, capable of quick thought and swift action. I see you as friends and comrades and that is how I wish you to see me. Your allegiance lies not with me or any other single man, but with our cause. Always remember that."

__

You smooth-faced bastard, Grantaire thought hollowly. _Just look at them. They'd do anything you asked them to._ The thoughts dropped like blocks of cold granite in Grantaire's mind as he watched Enjolras, half-hoping to catch his eye. Enjolras talked on and Grantaire watched the others listen, a dull rumbling roar inside his head rendering the youth's words incoherent to his own ears.

__

Leave this place, Justin Enjolras, he cried inwardly, wishing himself the courage to cry it aloud. _Leave us, for I see you now and the truth is suddenly, obscenely clear – it stares back at me with hollow eyes. The truth is that you believe every word you say. Your conviction is real. Your purity bedazzles me, terrifies me, all the more so because you yourself don't understand its power, do not wield it intentionally. I look at you and I realise that I am looking at a man who will die young; I see it in your eyes, I hear it in your voice. Well damn yourself if you like – no mortal man could stop you – but I beg you to spare my friends. Don't make them take up their crosses and follow you over the edge of the world just because you can. Please, please spare their soft flesh and unwise hearts and leave us now. Leave, because we will never leave you. Leave before I lose my will to fight against you. I don't want to come to love you, because I know I'll only lose you . . ._

* * *

At the same time, though, the years flown by felt like nothing at all. If Grantaire stopped short and closed his eyes, he could see their faces once again, hear their voices as if they had only ceased to ring a matter of minutes ago. And it wasn't just that – Paris itself had not changed. Even seen at this hour of night, with the steady rain drumming down, nothing was truly different. No bright banners of freedom festooned the streets; the ragged men and women hurrying past all regarded him with the familiar gazes of suspicion, hostility or dull indifference.

A girl of perhaps fifteen sidled up and grabbed his sleeve with a smile that passed for coquettish. Grantaire was about to shake her off when their eyes met, and whatever she saw in his sufficed to make her recoil and creep back into the shadows from whence she came. He strode on.

The crow alighted on his shoulder, flicked water droplets from its head and wings.

__

she sensed you were different

"I figured," Grantaire grunted.

__

she won't be the only one boy all those who suffer pain will recognise you as something different to themselves and yet something similar they may recoil or they may reach out be warned

"All those who suffer?" Grantaire smiled bitterly. "That should bond me with three quarters of Paris at the very least."

__

where are we going

Grantaire paused on the street corner, trying to get his bearings and blinking rainwater out of his eyes. "Enjolras lived in a building on the rue de Coutard. We're going there."

__

do you even know what you're looking for

"Do you?"

__

remember what i said boy i don't have all the answers

Grantaire considered that, and decided that the crow was telling the truth. "Maybe other people have moved into his rooms since then. I don't know. But there'll be people there who remember him, perhaps. Let's hope I can think of the right questions to ask them."

He walked on, and the crow remained on his shoulder. The small tavern to the left, that was right. It had obviously been closed down some time after 1832 but the sign still hung over the door, the faded depiction of a charging bull and scarlet-coated toreador. 

"Next left down Blessard," he muttered aloud without realising.

__

have you been to enjolras' apartment before

"I've been invited in once, but hardly out of generosity and good grace. I was with Bossuet and we ran into him. He had some pamphlets to distribute and we had to go up to his rooms to collect them. I believe he'd have preferred to leave me standing out on the street, but it was raining and he was a gentleman born and bred, after all."

The crow was ominously silent for a few moments and Grantaire felt the hair on his neck prickle. Then, gently –

__

but you've followed him more than once haven't you

Grantaire felt a lump rising in his throat again and swallowed hard, forcing it back down. "A lot more than once. It's a long walk from the Musain. He acted as though he wasn't afraid of anything, but that doesn't mean anything won't happen. We all heard the stories about idealists who were getting too vocal being attacked in the streets. After the riots of '30, Bahorel suggested he might want some protection. He refused, of course."

__

did he know you followed him

"God, no." Grantaire almost laughed aloud. "He'd have moved to the other side of Paris if he'd known about it."

One of the tenement buildings on Blessard had been burnt hollow in a fire, Grantaire noted. He was silent as he picked his way around the rubble in the streets, trying not to think about the rue de Chanvrerie.

__

and did anything ever happen

"Of course something happened – he got shot," Grantaire spat. He knew that wasn't what the crow had meant, but he didn't care.

The rue de Coutard was narrower than the rue de Blessard and the sign announcing its entrance was rendered illegible by rust and weather. The first time Grantaire had seen Enjolras' building, he'd wondered why Enjolras had chosen such a nondescript bushel to hide his light under. Some students did live in this district, certainly, but it seemed an odd choice of address for a young man from a noble family who could have done much better for himself.

"Probably just the reason he chose it," Feuilly had once commented when the topic arose in conversation one day. "If you wanted to locate and arrest a politically active law student, chances are you wouldn't start your search a matter of streets away from the Faubourg Saint-Jacques."

Bahorel had muttered something about children slumming it and moved on to other things.

Enjolras' building had always been one of the better-looking in the rue de Coutard and even now it stood out from the others. Or, Grantaire thought, perhaps that was just because he recognised it as Enjolras' home. The building was dubbed the Rougemont, after some charlatan from the 1790s who claimed that images of the Blessed Virgin appeared amongst the peeling plaster and damp watermarks on the walls of his apartment. As Grantaire drew nearer, he saw that the number of boarded-up windows had almost doubled since he was last here. He had heard Combeferre mention once that Enjolras' lease on his rooms was permanent, but wondered what he would do if the young man's apartment had since been taken over by a tanner and his brood of squalling brats.

The crow flapped its wings, making the air whistle past his ear.

"What?" he snapped.

__

something happened didn't it

"Perhaps." The word was out before Grantaire could stop it, and once it was out, suspicions and ideas coalesced and became horribly tangible. _If he says it was a matter of plain bad luck, I'm prepared to go with that,_ he heard Bahorel's voice say, and did not know what caused him greater unease – the haunting familiarity of that voice, or the edge of doubt he heard in it, imagined or otherwise.

An old woman shuffled down the steps of the Rougemont, reeking of stale fish and eyeing him suspiciously. He stood aside and let her pass before he entered.

Thunder rumbled overhead.


	12. Chapter 10

**

CHAPTER TEN

** _

"And now I'm trying to tell you about my life  
And my tongue is twisted and more dead than alive.  
And my feelings, they've always been betrayed.  
I was born a little damaged man,  
And look what they've made."  


_ – THE VERVE, "Velvet Morning" 

Enjolras had lived on the top floor of the Rougemont – six levels up. The door to his apartment was at the end of a short hall with creaking floorboards and cracks in the walls and ceiling, and had the number '40' scratched and inked into the panelling in lieu of a brass plate. Grantaire stood before this door as he had so many times before, reflecting that he had absolutely no idea what lay beyond it. It had been locked – much as he expected it to be – but unlike his own, as well as many others he'd passed in the halls of the Rougemont, it had not been boarded up. He knocked on the door, then hammered with his fists but there was no response. If someone new lived here, they weren't home.

"Whoever took over probably wouldn't like their door broken," he said to the crow on his shoulder. "So why don't you pull the same trick you did at the Musain, eh?"

__

already done

Grantaire took hold of the doorknob and turned. So it was.

And what he saw within froze him on the threshold.

For a dizzying, half-mad moment it was as though it was still 1832 and Enjolras was expected home within minutes.

The moment passed, and Grantaire was able to stumble through the doorway and close the door behind him. The crow fluttered across the room and perched on the back of the chair behind a large desk. It watched its charge closely as his pale face grew even paler.

Grantaire stared wildly about the room, willing his trembling legs not to give way beneath him. He could think of no rational explanation but not only was No. 40, Rougemont tenement still vacant after five years, it still looked virtually the same as when Enjolras had lived there.

* * *

Enjolras held the door open as Bossuet and Grantaire entered. "As you can see, contrary to popular belief there is no cause for concern. I'm hardly shivering in a garret."

Bossuet stared around the room. "How much did this cost again?"

"I've got a few payments to go, but eight hundred and fifty francs all up. That's including the furniture. All things considered, I think it will do very nicely indeed."

"So this is yours, now."

"For as long as I want it."

Grantaire shrugged. "Well, I suggest you make a brand new resolution to try and live past thirty. Really get your money's worth."

Enjolras gave him a withering look and crossed the floor to the bookshelves. Bossuet followed him, but Grantaire remained where he was, looking around. The large room's furnishings were nowhere near as luxurious as his own, but they were nowhere near as dilapidated either. The door to the adjoining room was closed, presumably this was where Enjolras slept. The bare floor would probably make the room somewhat chilly during winter, but the iron stove squatting in the far corner of the room would warm things considerably. Grantaire also noted that the walls within No. 40 looked a damn sight better than they did in the rest of the Rougemont.

"Did you get this done yourself?" he asked.

Enjolras glanced up from a sheaf of paperwork and followed Grantaire's gaze. "The walls? Yes. I had them re-plastered when I moved in. Maybe one day I'll get some carpets for the floor, too. There were some when I came, great Persian things, but they were moth-eaten and I think the one in the bedroom had bloodstains on it."

He turned back to Bossuet and continued talking about a new arrangement being negotiated with the printers in the Saint-Antoine. Grantaire, uninterested in the conversation, continued strolling around the room.

There were two arched floor-to-ceiling windows which opened onto some thing that failed to qualify as a balcony but was definitely wide enough and sturdy enough for a man to sit upon in the open air. Grantaire supposed that on a clear day, the view might even be pleasant. He noticed something sitting curled up before one of the windows and felt obliged to comment. "Does the cat have a name?"

Enjolras looked up again, and so did Bossuet. The cat, a small grey creature, seemed aware that it had attracted attention. It sat up and yawned, showing a small pink tongue and a set of sharp little teeth.

"It must have run in through the door as I was leaving this morning." Enjolras didn't look exactly displeased at the sight of the creature. "I don't know if it has a name, it's not exactly mine. I think it must have belonged to the previous tenant, I feed it most days. Remind me to put it out when we leave."

So Grantaire did.

* * *

Grantaire crossed the floor to the desk. Perhaps Enjolras had conducted an evidence-destroying tidy-up before he left on that morning in June; the desk and its drawers were empty. The bookshelves were still lined with the same books, but a veil of dust and cobwebs had fallen across them. Using his index finger, he wrote Enjolras' name on the surface of the desk, then wiped it out again leaving a smear of dark ebony wood standing out against the pale grey dust.

"He should have made that resolution," he said quietly. "No one else moved in here after all."

The crow cocked its head. The air in this room was as alive as it had been in the back room of the Musain, just as full of memories and muted echoes, but the boy did not seem aware of it, attuned to it. The crow felt its skin prickle with energy, or maybe that was just a reaction to the smell of cat in the room. It had been attacked by a cat once, and although it had given that half-grown feline sufficient reason to think twice about attacking a bird that big again, it remained alert to the scent and wary of the potential presence of its source.

Meanwhile, Grantaire had picked a slender volume off the top bookshelf, where it left a book-shaped outline in the pale dust. _Candide_ by Voltaire. He opened it and read the hand-written note on the inside cover, penned in Courfeyrac's slightly flamboyant scrawl:

_

The truly frightening thing is that this probably IS the best of all possible worlds.  
Lucky for us you're in it.  
Salutations and birthday greetings,  
COURFEYRAC.

_

Grantaire smiled faintly and held the book up for the crow to see. "For his twenty-fourth birthday. He said he might even get around to reading it one day. Wonder if he did."

He flicked idly through the pages, then stopped short and took a closer look. The History of the Old Woman may as well have been a complete and total mystery – the first three pages of the chapter had been ripped out of the book, leaving only thin paper strips running down the length of the spine. Grantaire frowned at that – Enjolras had never struck him as the type to handle books carelessly. But this couldn't have been sheer carelessness. Whoever had ripped the book had done it deliberately. The tears looked too neat.

Puzzled, Grantaire ran his finger down the jagged strips. As his finger was about halfway down the length of the page, the paper suddenly became searing hot to the touch, the world tilted sideways, and he was looking at something different.

The book was no longer in his hand but sitting open on the desk amongst other books and papers. A candle had been knocked over, extinguished. A tall heavily-built man was standing by the desk, grinning as he wiped his bloody right hand clean . . . on the pages of the open _Candide_. Grantaire tried to turn and see what the man was looking at, but could not.

__

"Haven't got much weight on you, boy," the tall man remarked, his harsh voice distorted, echoing. _"Maybe you should be more careful how you throw it around."_

__

WHO THE HELL IS THAT?

The crow cawed. The apparition vanished.

Grantaire blinked, looked down at the book in his hand. He had seen the pages smeared with blood, and now they had been torn out. By whom? What had happened? He turned back to the inside cover, ran his finger across the note Courfeyrac had written so many years ago. Placing the book carefully down on the empty desk, he looked at the crow. The crow hopped up onto the desk itself, pecked once at the book's blue cover.

__

i saw it too

"What the hell was it?" Grantaire whispered, still shaken.

The crow looked up at him, head on one side.

__

you tell me boy

Grantaire walked slowly across the floor and sat down in a large armchair. He rested his head against the back and closed his eyes. He saw the man's face again for a blinding flash, tried to scrutinise it, failed to recognise it. Whoever the man was, he was a stranger. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the crow had left the desk and was hopping across the floor towards him. Persistent.

__

something happened and you're not letting yourself remember it

"I've only been here once," Grantaire snapped, "and I've never seen that man in my life. Anywhere."

__

enjolras did though

Grantaire gripped the armrests and did not reply. The chair was covered with what felt like velvet – faded, wearing thin in patches. It was comfortable and not too soft, the sort of chair it would be easy to doze off in if one was tired. Maybe Enjolras had fallen asleep in this chair, dreamt his strange dreams in this very spot.

He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, listened to the sound of his beating heart. This was as close to Enjolras as he would ever be, had ever been – until the moment of their deaths. In his mind's eyes he envisioned the room as it would have been when Enjolras lived in it. Would he have been able to walk through that door every night and shrug off the stress and worry of the day? Knowing Enjolras, probably not. He would have worked here – burning candles down to half-inch stubs night after night at his desk, a dreamer with a difference living an anonymous existence amongst the other tenants of the Rougemont.

His train of thoughts broke. Something was scratching at the door.

Grantaire's eyes snapped open and he rose to his feet. The crow gurgled in alarm and flapped up onto the dresser.

Grantaire walked to the door, put his ear to it. Listened.

__

"Meow." Insistent. More scratching.

He opened the door, and the small grey cat strolled through, barely giving the strange man in the black coat a second glance. It padded soundlessly across the floorboards and sat down beneath a table where it proceeded to wash behind its ears.

"Exactly how many tenants have you gone through?" Grantaire asked it as he closed the door.

The cat was a little bigger, but not much. It was still sleek and healthy-looking. Whoever lived here now had continued the tradition of taking care of it.

Was Grantaire so sure that someone _did_ live here now? The cat seemed perfectly at home, but although the furniture was as it always had been, it was covered in dust and it was obvious that nobody had touched the books for a very long time. There was a water jug and crockery stacked on the shelves, but it too was dusty and disused. The inkwell in the desk had had cobwebs inside it.

He looked across the room at the second door, the one opening into the adjoining room. Wondered whether he would be brave enough to open that door also.

Grantaire crouched down on the floor, held a hand out towards the cat. "Come on out of there," he said. "I won't hurt you."

The cat looked at him with yellow-green eyes then came forward, nuzzled against the proffered hand. It was warm, soft, alive. Trusting.

"Would you like to tell me who's been feeding you all this time?" Grantaire asked. "And if they'll be coming back any time soon?"

The cat only purred and bunted Grantaire's hand with its head. The man obliged, scratched behind its ears.

"Did Enjolras do this too? I must say, he never struck me as the sort to keep a pet. I don't have anything for you to eat, by the way. Sorry. You could have that bird if you like, though."

__

oh very funny

Grantaire rose to his feet. The cat rubbed itself around his legs, still purring. He nudged it away gently with his foot and walked across to the windows. The glass panes were thick with dust, he couldn't see much of what lay beyond. In early mornings Enjolras would have opened the windows, sat out on the ledge alone with his thoughts as he watched Paris stir and come alive. This place had been home, it had been his, it had been safe.

Until . . .

The crow shifted in the shadows, he saw its eyes glint back at him.

__

you do remember something don't you

"Something," he replied slowly, linking fragmented thoughts together as he spoke. "But I hadn't thought about it before. It could be nothing. I don't know."

__

But it could be something, an inner voice whispered. And that was the voice he was trying to ignore, because if it was something, the ramifications were terrifying.

The crow was silent, watching him. So he closed his eyes and began to speak.

"It was in November 1831, the twentieth I think, but perhaps not. There wasn't a meeting called for that night, but a lot of us were there anyway. Bossuet mentioned that Enjolras hadn't been in his medieval politics – something like that – class that morning. He was asking Courfeyrac whether he'd finished his philosophy of religion essay when . . ."

* * *

Courfeyrac was just about to reply when he saw Feuilly's gaze switch to a point somewhere beyond his shoulder and his expression change to one of stricken horror. He turned in his chair to see what the other man was looking at, and upon hearing his sharp intake of breath Grantaire turned too. His stomach lurched.

Enjolras had entered the room, supporting himself on a cane.

His face was livid and purple with bruises – one of the ugly swellings had almost closed his right eye completely. There were two or three cuts on his temples and his lower lip was swollen and split. Judging by his limping gait, the injuries extended further. He didn't just look like a man who had been in a violent fight, he looked like a man who had _lost_ a violent fight, against multiple assailants with weapons.

Already Combeferre and Joly were on their feet and by his side, with others close behind.

"What happened?" Courfeyrac's voice was flat with shock.

Enjolras hobbled over to his customary table and eased himself down into his seat before replying. "A gang of thieves broke into my apartment last night." His voice was raspy and almost completely without inflection. "I walked straight in on them."

"How many?"

"Five."

"Have you seen a doctor yet?" Combeferre asked quietly.

"Not necessary." Enjolras jerked away from his friend's outstretched hands. "Nothing's broken, that's all I need to know."

Grantaire was silent and had remained seated – mainly because he was sure his trembling legs wouldn't carry him across the room. He had been in more than the occasional brawl during his life, and knew how hard you had to hit someone to leave marks like that. The thought of someone – _five_ someones – doing that to Enjolras made him physically ill.

And the others all obviously felt the same.

"You're holding yourself awkwardly," Joly said. "Did they kick you in the sides, or in the back? You could have cracked ribs. Does it hurt to breathe?"

Bossuet put a hand on his friend's shoulder, quietening him.

Combeferre took off his spectacles, wiped them with a cloth that lay on the table. Grantaire could see his hands trembling. "You really should tell the police," he said.

Enjolras' good eye flashed with irritation. "Tell them what? 'Was any property stolen or damaged, m'sieur?' 'Yes, Inspector – some money was taken, and some seditious material I'd been planning to print and distribute was destroyed. Yes, actually I'm _that_ Justin Enjolras, I see you've heard of me.'" 

Bahorel looked up, his steely eyes flashing. "Your leaflets?" he rumbled. "You think this could be political?"

Enjolras looked up at the large man, then looked away again. "I doubt it," he said in that ugly hoarse voice. "They weren't police agents, I'm sure of that."

"But how can you be sure?" Bahorel persisted. "And they didn't have to be police agents, they could have been hired hands. Less obtrusive activists than you have ended up getting hurt." He ran a hand through his hair, obviously more than worried. "For God's sake, man, I offered you protection after the riots last year. You should have taken it."

"Would you like to move in with me" Combeferre asked. "Just for couple of weeks, at least?"

Enjolras shook his head. "Changing my routine would just draw attention, don't you think?"

"You've been _hurt_," Combeferre returned. Grantaire was mildly surprised to hear anger in his voice. "Sorry if this comes as a surprise to you, but we care."

"I was unlucky, that's all." Enjolras' expression was unreadable beneath his bruises and his tone was distorted. But his left eye was as cold and stern as ever. "And even if it _was_ political, what of it? We were all clear on the inherent risks when we started this." He struggled to his feet once more. "I only came here to say that I'm cancelling next week's meeting. Aside from that, it's business as usual. I won't tell you all to watch out for one another – you should be doing that anyway."

"Where are you going?" Bahorel demanded.

"I'm going home. To continue cleaning up. It's a mess."

"I'm going with you."

He placed a large hand on the other man's shoulder, and Enjolras flinched back. "Thank you for your concern, but it's not necessary. I'll take a cab."

Bahorel had to be satisfied with that, and everyone watched in silence as Enjolras exited in much the same style as he'd entered.

"And the winner of the Quasimodo, Hunchback of Notre-dame look-alike competition is . . ." Courfeyrac said shakily. Nobody laughed and it was obvious he hadn't expected them to. He passed a hand over his face. "God, he looks a mess."

Combeferre rose, resettled his spectacles on his nose and looked at Bahorel. "You're thinking something," he said sharply. "What?"

Bahorel shrugged uneasily. "I don't know. I suppose I'm thinking that whoever administered that beating knew what they were doing." He paused. "But if he says it was a matter of plain bad luck, I'm prepared to go with that. We have good relations with the other factions, I can't think of any reason why anyone would have it in for us. I just wish he wouldn't be so, well, Enjolraic about it."

"You're not the only one." Combeferre turned back to address the room in general. "My advice is that we follow his directive and leave well enough alone. He won't take help if he doesn't want it, and he'll talk about it when he's ready to. And, horrible as this sounds, let's be grateful that it _was_ just a case of wrong-place-wrong-time."

"I'm glad Prouvaire wasn't here," Feuilly said quietly. "Maybe someone better give him advance warning before he sees for himself, yes?"

Bahorel nodded. "And I'm going to ask around, see if anybody's heard about this, or other break-ins on lone students. If anybody sees Gavroche, tell him to do the same. But the chief's right, everyone should just take a little care from now on."

"You think he _will_ talk about it?" Bossuet looked doubtful.

"Oh, I hope he does," Bahorel replied furiously. "Just tells us what they look like, at least. So I can find them and break their fucking legs."

"I'll help you," Grantaire said, almost before he realised the words were out.

The others turned and looked at him.

"Since when did you care?" Bahorel asked shortly, before stomping out of the room.

The others looked collectively apologetic for the retort, but Grantaire knew they were thinking the same thing.

"I know, it's a terrible thing to happen," Combeferre said in his most diplomatic of tones.

Grantaire felt obliged to legitimise his outburst. "Surprising, at least. I didn't know marble could bruise like that."

It was perhaps twenty minutes before everyone began making their excuses and their goodbyes. Grantaire waited until everyone had gone and then ordered another bottle of wine from Louison, who was close to tears over what had happened to the "handsome young monsieur". He sat alone in the back room, wishing that the wine would begin to work its old magic and buzz pleasantly through him, helping him to forget. But it didn't work, that night at least.

A look had passed between Enjolras and Grantaire before the former had left the room, and it was a look Grantaire had never thought he'd see on the other man's face. 

It was the look of an animal that had been trapped, terrified, and wounded beyond any hope of healing.

* * *


	13. Chapter 11

**

CHAPTER ELEVEN

** _

"I wish that I could find a way  
To smash my fist right through these walls  
Of ugliness and emptiness,  
And gently touch your face."  


_ – STABBING WESTWARDS, "So Far Away" 

"And that," Grantaire concluded, "is what happened. I didn't see him for four or five days after that. But he was back at the Musain within a week and behaving as though nothing had happened. He didn't have to use the cane for long, and the bruises eventually faded and his voice came back. He never did talk about it, except for a month later when Courfeyrac noticed that he had bought a new watch – they'd taken the old one." He swallowed. "That's what they got out of it – forty francs and a pocket watch."

Grantaire had narrated the story quickly, clumsily. The longer it took to relate, the clearer the memories became. Enjolras' classically beautiful face became bruised and swollen once more, his eyes haunted, agonised, half-mad with terror. During the following weeks Grantaire had been unable to stop thinking about what had happened. He lay awake at night conjuring up vivid recreations of the event, putting different faces on the assailants, different weapons in their rough hands. What would have gone through Enjolras' head as he stood in the doorway, watching five men tear his home apart? Would he have stepped towards them, taken the offensive? And when they were beating him – _five of them_ – did he fight back?

Bahorel had been unable to come up with any possible leads and reluctantly accepted that it had been just another random act of violence in a city that was too full of them anyway. Gavroche had not heard anything either, but during the next few weeks he paid Enjolras the respect due to a man who, in his words, had "copped a pounding" like that and was still able to walk about. Only once, much later, had Enjolras himself come close to touching the topic . . . and that had been when he thought he and Combeferre were alone.

__

in others words it did affect him

"Maybe it did." Grantaire looked away from the crow, back out the window. "But he was was dead in seven months, so what does it matter?"

__

any fool can die grantaire the question isn't how it's why

The crow thought it was stating a simple fact – and one that the boy would have to get used to very quickly – but the boy's head jerked up and his dark, deep-set eyes blazed. Grantaire took a stumbling step towards the crow, and it hopped back further along the dresser.

"H-he said that," Grantaire stammered. "Not in those exact words, _but he said that_."

His feet gave way beneath him and he crashed down to the floor. He had never known whether Enjolras had meant the words or whether he had merely spat them out in defence, a verbal reaction to Grantaire's probing. The argument had been short but savage and neither of them had ever mentioned it again. Just another dark cloud to brood heavily over the gaping chasm that separated them, isolated them and left them staring at one another in mute frustration and bewilderment.

The crow dropped lightly to the wooden floorboards and hopped towards him.

__

when did he say that

Grantaire looked back up at the bird, but at the same time he appeared not to see it, he appeared to be looking straight through it and back into the past. Ready at last to confront this half-acknowledged secret pain.

"The night he was attacked. We were the last two to leave the Musain. Earlier that evening we had been talking about the Fernier case – he was another activist who'd been arrested that week, but on a murder charge that was clearly false. There had been rumours that there would be a riot on the day of his trial. Hardly promised to be the beginnings of the new revolution, but the victim had been a Guardsman so there were plenty of ugly feelings between the cock's-tails and the workers. The others had been discussing whether the Friends of the ABC should turn out in force, or just put a few representatives amongst the crowd at the courthouse gates. Enjolras said that he was going to be there, so of course everybody else said they would be there too."

Grantaire closed his eyes, swallowed. The crow watched him closely. Remembering _hurt_.

"I thought it was absolutely ridiculous. If there _was_ a scuffle outside the courthouse, what would happen? People would get hurt, that's all. The general populace was ambivalent about Fernier – he hadn't shot that Guardsman but he had connections to the Communards which most felt was leaning a little too far in the opposite direction. They'd hardly be taking to the streets if the death penalty was passed. So after everybody left, that's what I waited to tell Enjolras. That the entire thing was pointless."

Only, it hadn't come out quite that way. As he watched the other students leave, Grantaire had frantically tried to compose a set speech in his head, to find a way to say things he had to say – only to find that it wasn't possible. What did he have to say, after all? That he thought this fist-waving was a waste of time, and Enjolras knew that he thought that anyway. That if there _was_ a riot, nothing would come of it except for injury to those who were unlucky enough to get in the way of the Guardsmen's sabres. He finished off his second bottle of wine – a remarkably sober evening it had been – and watched as Enjolras sat at his usual table, reading the paper and stonily ignoring him.

__

Don't go to the courthouse next week, he wanted to say. _Don't run such a risk over so trifling a matter._

As soon as he'd said the words in his head, Grantaire knew that he would never be able to say them aloud. Because that would be an acknowledgement that Enjolras _would_ eventually have to run greater risks. On most days Grantaire was able to block out that first bleak realisation that he had made when Enjolras had first told a group of young men what he believed they were capable of achieving. But on others he was unable to forget it. The sun would catch in Enjolras' hair, he'd look quickly towards a speaker, tap his fingers on a tabletop, stand waiting for a cart to pass before he crossed the street. And Grantaire would look at him and remember _This man will die young._ And that was something that Grantaire occasionally woke up screaming about, drenched in sweat.

So that night, he had shambled uneasily towards Enjolras' table without knowing what he wanted to say. Enjolras had looked up at him in irritation, seeing only a grotesque parody of Socrates in his gadfly incarnation – an inarticulate cynic with alcohol on his breath, whose stinging needling words provoked exasperation and frustration, not deeper thought.

"I attempted to broach the subject," Grantaire told the crow. "And of course I failed. He was looking up at me with those cold, angry eyes. He didn't want me there, standing over him, talking to him. I wanted so much to tell him that I cared – not about his cause, but about _him_. But how could I? _How the hell could I?_"

The crow bowed its head. Grantaire hauled himself to his feet, and the crow felt the vibrations through the floorboards as the man returned to the window.

"He thought I was just picking a fight. And you know what – I was. Because I didn't know how else to do it. My God, sometimes I think that if we could have just sat down and had a proper conversation, then . . ." He fell silent, scrubbed silently at the dusty glass with the palm of his hand. Soon the pane was clean enough to see through. The sky, thick with clouds, was dark. He wondered what the time was – it felt like he had been here with the crow for a lifetime.

__

Maybe I have been.

He dusted his hands off. The cat was back at his feet, rubbing around his legs and purring hopefully. He permitted that.

"The words just came tumbling out, and they tumbled out wrong. I said, 'You're here. You're alive. You're _now_. And you're going to throw it away.' He said nothing, he just _looked_ at me but I knew he was thinking, Oh, this is nice. The wine-cask telling me that I'm wasting my life. I tried to clarify, I asked him: What are you trying to _prove?_ That you don't mind getting hurt, that you don't care if you get _killed?_ Because that's all that is going to happen to you.

"And then he looked at me, _really_ looked at me. And he said . . ."

* * *

Enjolras' eyes were like ice, and Grantaire felt as though he was hearing the other man's voice from a million miles away.

"If all I wanted to do was die, I could go find myself a bridge and do it tonight. I don't think you have ever lived, Grantaire, so don't you dare talk to me about death. I do what I do because I know that I am right. I am deeply sorry that I have an understanding of my capabilities and limitations, and of what I want to do and where I am going. I'm even more sorry that you do _not_ have those things . . . and that you despise me because I do. I accept your presence here only because the Republic cannot afford to turn men away from her. The others like you, I do not. 

"Do you think I wish for death – that I walked out into the streets in July last year with open arms, waiting for it to embrace me? I don't, and I didn't. In dying, man's only victory is over death, and what does that matter – we'll all die some day. No. The true battle, the one that matters, is fought by the living. We may die, but others will not. It's remembering that that keeps me from falling apart, when I'm exhausted and afraid, when I just stop short and think 'What the hell am I doing? Am I failing my friends, risking them for no good reason?' I remember _that this isn't about me, it isn't about the individual_. Is that so hard to understand?"

* * *

There had been no anger in Enjolras' voice – only resignation and an eerie sadness that made Grantaire's skin crawl. For a frozen moment, Enjolras looked like a man of seventy, or a general in war who knows that no matter what decisions he makes, an entire battalion of brothers, sons and husbands is going to be massacred. It was the longest that Enjolras had ever spoken to him directly, and it was as though he somehow understood that these words had to be said, even though Grantaire was the last person in the world that he wished to say them to. A confession of true feeling made in exhausted anger – in reaction to a clumsy declaration of care unrecognisable for what it was. Grantaire had wished he could have said "Yes, I understand." But he did not, because no matter how Enjolras put it, what had come out of his mouth that night was an acknowledgement that he too understood that a debt collector with hollow eyes was waiting patiently in the shadows for him – and in waiting for him was waiting for his friends. He was acknowledging that he knew this, and that he did not care.

"Neither of us said much after that," Grantaire continued. "Then, about five minutes later he said that he was going home. I blurted out, without thinking, 'Can I walk with you?' Not 'Would you like me to walk with you?' or 'It's late – maybe you shouldn't go back alone,' but 'Can I walk with you?' He looked at me again, but this time there was no anger or frustration. He was just confused. 'I don't know what you want from me,' he said, 'and I don't have the energy to try and find out tonight. Good-night.' And then he was gone."

The cat reached up Grantaire's trouser leg – clawed the material. Again he nudged it down.

__

and what did you want from him

"Just that night?" Grantaire shrugged. "To see him home safely. I shouldn't have said anything, I should have just followed him. But I didn't. I sat there alone for another hour and then went home myself. And he went home and found five thieves in his apartment."

__

Found them right here in this room.

Grantaire looked about again. The door to No. 40 was at the end of a hall, around a corner. Enjolras would have seen the door was open, heard the sounds of furniture being thrown about – maybe he'd started running towards his door – and the men would have been in here. And what they had done to Enjolras had changed him.

And it was as simple as that.

The thought was made tangible before Grantaire could stop it, and there was no taking it back.

His demeanour in the weeks following the break-in . . . Joly openly noted that he looked unwell . . . slender to begin with he had lost even more weight . . . a half-heard conversation between him and Combeferre when they thought they were alone . . . he had gone to the courthouse for Fernier's trial even though the others did not think that he was strong enough . . . somebody mentioned that he wasn't turning up at some of his classes . . . and all the way through he never spoke about what happened, made it obvious that he didn't want others to speak about it either. Bahorel had put it perfectly, he was being "Enjolraic" about the whole thing and that should have been a good sign, but Grantaire didn't like it, whenever he thought about he grew uneasy. He would watch Enjolras closely, trying to convince himself that he should bring the subject up, that there was cause for concern. But time passed and as June 1832 grew nearer it became less important amongst everything else that was happening and he maybe even forgot it had ever happened.

Until the moment of Enjolras' death.

Because he _had_ looked like that before, for that one moment when he limped out of the Musain the day after the break-in and his eyes had met with Grantaire's.

"I have to understand what happened," he said to the crow, unable to keep his voice from trembling. "I need to know who those men were and what they wanted. I don't want to know, but I have to, don't I?"

__

to understand you will have to see

He nodded, mouth suddenly dry. He understood how he would be able to see – it had happened in this very room. And if he willed himself – _forced_ himself – to look, then all would be revealed. He crossed the floor to the door, and all of a sudden the sound of his boots on the floorboards was empty and hollow. This room had been a home once, Enjolras had been safe here, much as Grantaire didn't like to admit it, out of harm's way. Then that had changed and there was much more to it than a break-in gone wrong.

He examined the door and its frame. Opened it, tested the ease with which the handle turned, the shape of the lock and the bolt. The crow had returned to the dresser, from which it watched him.

"This door wasn't forced," Grantaire said. "The doorjamb hasn't been damaged. Even if the bolt had had to be replaced, you'd be able to see the repair work and the bolt itself would look new. Either the lock was picked or . . ."

* * *

The little grey cat sat curled up in the armchair, warm and drowsy, brimming with milk the young man had brought home. The young man sat at his desk, he had been sitting there for quite some time, and the cat could hear the _scritch_-_scratch_ of his pen on paper. As always, it hoped against hope that the young man would forget to put it out before he went to bed.

A knock at the door. The young man jumped and the cat's ears pricked.

* * *

Grantaire himself jumped, whirled around and stared at the cat. It sat in the middle of the floor looking back up at him.

__

He didn't walk in on a break-in. He lied to us.

And the cat . . . _it had seen._

The crow watched in silence as the man closed the door and then walked towards the small animal, crouched down on the floor before it, hand outstretched. Trembling. Although it hadn't been expecting the boy to learn this way, it knew that he had discovered a key, found a window through which he could see what had happened that November.

* * *

Enjolras glanced down at his watch on the table. Nearly a quarter to one. People knew better than to come unannounced to his door at this hour of the night. Unless something had happened . . .

Whoever it was knocked again, louder.

He put down his pen, and folded down the top corner of the page of _Candide_ to ensure he wouldn't lose his place.

The little cat was now sitting bolt upright, ears pricked forward and pupils dilated. Alert.

Enjolras crossed to the door and opened it a cautious inch or two.

Standing in the hall were four men. Strangers. He tensed – unknown visitors could hardly be good news.

"Is this the home of Justin Enjolras?" one of them asked.

Enjolras kept his countenance neutral. "Who wants to know?"

"We do."

Four shoulders rammed against the door, slamming it inwards.

The impact sent Enjolras back towards the centre of the room and he could only watch in breathless horror as the four men strode across the threshold and into his home. Behind him the cat leapt down from the chair, ran for the door, skirting around the men. One of them – dark-haired with rings in his ears – kicked savagely at it. It stumbled sideways with a screech, then picked itself up again and raced out of the door.

Almost without realising, moving on instinct alone, Enjolras took a step towards the men, forced himself to speak with a steady voice.

"Who are –"

A heavy fist shot out, seemingly from nowhere, and smashed across his face.

In the following days, Enjolras would realise that he had no idea how much time passed between the moment that the men came through the door and the moment that they left. Even if he had thought of it he wouldn't have been able to check his watch, because they took it with them. But they did leave, leaving the air in the room thick with fear and pain, leaving his home in shambles, leaving him on the floor without the strength or will to move because everything hurt so much.

Some time later the cat returned . . . slinking in through the door the men had left ajar. It limped across the floor to him and he forced himself to sit up, run his swollen aching fingers over its flanks, seeing whether anything felt broken. Then Enjolras himself rose to his feet, limped past his overturned desk and scattered books . . . into his bedroom with the drawers wrenched out of the bureau and his belongings torn or smashed or thrown about.

It felt as though he was someone else . . . some person who was completely unconnected to everything that had happened here. It felt as though he was standing in the corner watching another young man, a man whose fair hair had seemingly turned to russet, whose face was bruised and swollen, whose aching body trembled within his torn and blood-stained clothes. He watched as the young man poured water from a jug into a basin and picked up a washcloth, dampened it. Stopped short.

He watched as the young man sank slowly to the floor once more, and lay motionless there, curled up on one side and crying silent tears.

* * *

Grantaire heard a soft caw, far off in the distance. He was reluctant to respond to it, unwilling to open his eyes and leave this darkness where he was unable to see Enjolras and what had been done to him. The floorboards were cool and hard beneath him and all of a sudden he found himself wondering whether the grave had felt like this – solid beneath you, darkness around you. The cat had sensed whatever passed between it and the man when they touched, and had fled to some dark corner of the room. He could sense its presence – afraid, knowing that something about this man separated him from other men.

He could sense another presence but was not sure what it was.

Then the crow's voice crackled through the shouts and thuds and cries echoing in the silence.

__

might want to open your eyes boy

It took a moment, it was as though his drying tears had glued them closed.

It took him another moment to recognise what he was looking at when he opened them.

A young woman was sitting beside him, looking down at him with wide eyes and parted lips.


	14. Chapter 12

**

CHAPTER TWELVE

** _

"It's the jewel of victory,  
It's the chasm of misery.  
And once you have bitten the core,  
You will always know the flavour –  
The split second of divinity."  


_ – FAITH NO MORE, "The Real Thing" 

When Eloise Josse woke to see the crow sitting on the foot of her bed, she had thought that she was still dreaming.

"Is it time?" she asked it.

The crow did not reply, and that was how she knew that this was not a dream. It gurgled in its throat and looked urgently at her, head cocked.

The man in her bed was still asleep. He had been drinking – in his deep sleep he would remain. For a few more hours at least. Her wrapper lay coiled on the floor, so she reached down and draped it about her shoulders. She took up the lamp sitting on her bedside table and she walked on bare silent feet out of her apartment, down the hall to the stairs.

There was no need to attire herself decently for this short walk. Chances were she would see nobody, and even if she did they would not be surprised. They knew what she was and who she was. The crow fluttered ahead of her, leading her, but there was no need. Eloise knew where she was going.

The fair-haired student had lived in No. 40, the room almost immediately above her own.

* * *

She had been going up the stairs and the student met her on the way down. She lowered her eyes modestly, tried to pass, but he stopped her. She looked up at him, and his face was grave.

"You are Mademoiselle Josse, yes?"

She nodded. Not that many people called her that.

He held out a key to her.

"When the rent on your apartment runs out, you can move into mine. It's been bought and paid for."

She took the key. What else was there to do? "Why are you doing this? Where are you going?"

His eyes flickered. "There's going to be fighting in the streets. You and your family should stay indoors."

"You're going to the funeral."

The student nodded. "If it's not too much trouble, could you please feed the cat? I've left some money for milk and food on my desk."

With that he was gone, and she never saw him again.

* * *

He had known about her family's money troubles – her father had been killed by a bull at the slaughterhouse where he worked and her mother had taken ill after another miscarriage. The child, who would have been her brother, had been absolutely perfect. Only he was small enough to lie curled up in the palm of her cupped hand. Her mother died in the winter of 1834 and her young sister had left with a man who promised to marry her. She had not seen Katherine since, so perhaps he had.

Eloise did move into the student's apartment, after her mother died. She saw no need to shift the furniture around – it served its purpose where it was – and she never touched the books. There had been money on the desk just as he said would be, and he left a note saying that she could sell his clothes if she liked, for whatever money they would bring. So she had, but she had kept his papers and journals much as she had kept his books, half-wondering if somebody would come back one day and want them. The cat had stayed around too, which surprised her at first. She tried calling it by various names, wondering if he had given it once. Either he had not or she was unable to guess it, so she began calling the cat Mariolle. It even started coming when she called, or would be waiting for her when she came up the stairs.

At first Eloise had planned to use the upstairs room for business, because it was larger. But when she thought about the student she realised that she was quite unable to use his bed for such a purpose. So whenever she brought men back to the Rougemont, she took them downstairs to her old room. The system worked well. Having the luxury of a room reserved exclusively for _that_, she was able to fool herself for whole days at a stretch that what she did had absolutely nothing to do with who she was. That some of the other women who lived in the Rougemont did not resent her and that some of the men did not spit on her skirts during the day and then come to heave themselves on top of her at night.

The dreams about the crow and the student had begun the previous spring. At first they were hardly important figures – she'd be walking through the park and see the crow sitting in the branches of a tree, or she would be waiting for customer to approach her and see the young student hurry by in his usual garb, books tucked under his arm. But as time passed they became more significant. Often the crow would talk to her, tell her that she had to prepare for a homecoming. She would ask who was returning home and the crow would only say _"Soon,"_ and spread its wings and fly away, and she would jerk awake in the dark.

The most lucid of the dreams had only been three weeks ago, so real that she thought it was actually happening. She walked up the stairs to No. 40 and found the door already open. She entered the apartment and the young man named Enjolras was sitting in the large armchair with the cat on his lap. His face was livid and his clothes were stained with blood and gunpowder. She knew that he was dead. He said to her, _"If it's not too much trouble, will you please feed the crow? I've left my watch on the desk."_ She replied that there was no watch. The student placed the cat down on the floor and rose to his feet. _"I won't be coming back,"_ he told her, _"but someone else will. Look to the crow."_ She was sure he was about to tell her something more but then she awoke and the room was still and soft with moonlight. 

"It won't be him," she said aloud, her voice seemed deafening in the silence. There might be no one in here – the door could be locked.

It was not.

Ragged shreds of courage falling away, she almost turned then and there, back to the bed where her latest demon lover slept. _Of all the things to be afraid of,_ she chided herself. And opened the door.

Lying in the centre of the floor was a man. Her heart leapt to her mouth . . . but it wasn't _he_. 

It was a stranger. She advanced cautiously for a closer look, wary and ready to run should he spring to his feet. A few feet nearer and she saw that was not a concern – the man was in a dead faint.

"Is this my visitor?" she asked the crow. She received only a _caw_ for reply.

She placed her lamp down on the floor and settled down by the man to wait for him to awaken.

Although she had seen plenty worse, this man was not handsome. She placed his age between twenty-five and thirty. He was dressed entirely in black save for a red waistcoat with no shirt beneath. Although he was only of medium height she could tell that he would be strong – maybe savage too, judging by his face. She reached down and placed a hand in front of his mouth and nose to check for breath.

It was cold.

She withdraw the hand hastily and resumed her quiet watch. She wondered how this man would have known the other, Enjolras. She supposed that she'd find out soon enough.

And all of a sudden his eyes were open and he was looking up at her.

At first she wondered numbly whether the man was blind – he appeared to be looking straight through her. Then something changed and the eyes flickered, came alive. They were dark, much as she had expected them to be. Eloise remained perfectly still, allowing the man to make the first move.

He did, sitting up slowly and painfully. Winced as though he had struck his head when he fell.

The crow hopped across the floor and stood beside him, looking at both of them.

The man looked back at her with that same strange gaze. She was sure he could see her now, but at the same time he was seeing something else.

"Who are you?" she asked him quietly. Unsure of what else there was to know.

The man looked at her for a long moment. His expression was unreadable.

"Call me Lazarus," he said at last. And then, "Do you live here, mademoiselle?"

"I . . . Yes, I do." Some of the time, anyway. This could be a little too difficult and not important enough to explain, so she left it at that.

"And what is your name?"

"Eloise Josse."

Grantaire looked at the young woman sitting less than a foot from him. Skin like porcelain that glowed in the light of the lamp, with heavy-lidded eyes as dark as green glass. Her face was heart-shaped, framed with dark heavy hair that tumbled down over her shoulders. Her crimson wrapper was gathered around her waist and the chemise she wore left little to the imagination.

The woman was beautiful.

Once upon a time, Grantaire would have cared.

But now his eyes were adjusting to the sudden light and he was still inwardly reeling from the images he had seen when he touched the cat. The cat too had sensed something past between it and the man, for it had swiped at him with its claws, squealed and fled back underneath the desk. He could sense its presence now, tense and afraid and curious.

He had to look around the apartment to assure himself that he was here in the present with only the crow for company, and not witnessing the atrocity exhibition that had taken place in the winter of 1831. _What they did to him . . ._ The air still ringing with thuds and shouts and cries, he looked back at the woman.

"How long have you lived here?" he asked her.

Her gaze did not waver. "Since your friend died."

"So you knew Enjolras, then."

"You could say that."

Grantaire thought for a moment. Decided that he might as well ask. "Did you sleep with him?"

Eloise Josse's eyes flashed. "No!" A strange bitter smile twisted her lovely mouth. "I was fifteen when he went away. Don't get me wrong, I thought him very handsome. But he rarely spoke to me – only when we passed each other on the stairs."

Another little girl holding a torch for the golden boy, and this one a neighbour . . . Grantaire almost had to laugh at the thought.

The woman – girl, really – rose to her feet and he rose too. She looked up at him without fear, only a wary sort of curiosity.

"Tell me who you really are," she whispered.

Grantaire shrugged. "I have."

"No, you just gave me a false name."

"Not as false as you think." Grantaire stepped away from her then. "You know all you need to know – Enjolras was a friend of mine."

This man . . . what was it about him? _Maybe I am going to wake up in a few moments after all._ "Then tell me, Lazarus, why were you called forth?"

He looked sharply at her – was she mocking him?

The crow flapped its wings and cawed. They both looked at it.

"You knew I was coming, didn't you?" Grantaire said quietly, almost afraid to ask the question at all.

The young woman nodded.

"How did you know?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Grantaire laughed a short, barking laugh. "You'd be surprised the things I've started to believe in the last few hours."

She looked at him closely. He was telling the truth. "Alright then. I dreamed about you. The crow, it told me you were coming."

Eloise was not expecting what came next. The man looked away from her and back at the large black bird. It cawed again. It was impossible to miss what happened between man and crow – communication. Then the man called Lazarus looked back at her. There was something new in his eyes now and she was not sure what it was.

"Would you please let me into his bedroom?" the man asked.

She considered for a moment and then smiled. "On one condition."

"And what's that?" he snapped. Obviously not wanting to play games.

But neither did she. "Tell me your name."

The man was silent for another long moment. Finally he said, "My name was Alain Grantaire."

"Was?" she repeated.

"Was. Is. And shall be ever after." Suddenly the man smiled and his entire face changed. He almost looked pleasant. "Now will you permit me entrance, fair lady?"

She nodded and crossed the floor in front of him. She carried a key which she used to unlock the door. The crow followed them both.

"I doubt you'll find anything of value," Eloise told the man. "Anything of his I didn't sell or throw out, you'll find in the bottom drawer of the bureau. There are candles and matches by the bed. Now I'm afraid I have to go. If you want any more of my time, you'll have to start paying for it like everyone else." He glanced at her, obviously surprised. That was a pleasant change. "Do whatever you have to do. Maybe I'll see you again, maybe I won't. Good-night, Monsieur Grantaire."

With that she withdrew.

Grantaire stared about the bedroom in silence. The crow flapped to the bureau and picked its way carefully through the hairbrushes and ribbons and bottles of scent.

Grantaire let out a low whistle. "Well, Enjolras," he said. "Looks like a woman found her way into your bed after all."

He found the matches and candles where the young prostitute had said they would be, and then crossed to the bureau and knelt down to open the bottom drawer.

The crow looked down at him.

__

i can't explain why she dreamed about me

"You can't or you won't?"

__

i can't i promise you boy i never went to her some people just sense these things and obviously she's one of them

The boy grunted in reply and opened the drawer. The crow watched its charge and decided not to mention that such people could just sense these things for a reason.

Grantaire told himself that he would learn nothing here that he had not learned in the main room during those blood-drenched moments before he passed out. Amongst Enjolras' old papers and journals and letters he would find only memories of what had once been – the cold embers left behind when a fire had been smothered and extinguished. Everything here was a testimony to something lost . . . and that was why everything here was so important.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Grantaire sifted clumsily through the contents of the drawer, all the more lost because he had absolutely no idea what he was looking for. Concentrating on the simple of task of picking up articles, identifying them, and then setting them aside, he was able to steady himself against the hideous images that threatened to leap up before him with every moment.

* * *

. . . The fist smashed across his face . . . The world exploded in a painful red miasma and he dropped to the floor, landing awkwardly with a cry of pain . . . Jeering jangling laughter echoed far above him . . . there was blood dripping down onto the floorboard . . . it was _his_ . . . His gaze still blurred from the blow, he could see shadows, four pairs of boots gather on the floor about him . . . He tried to pull himself upright into a sitting position at least, and then a rough hand grabbed a fistful of hair and did it for him . . . who _were_ these men . . . _WHAT DO THEY WANT?_ . . .

* * *

Something near the back of the drawer, folded up in a piece of cloth. Grantaire reached for it, and as soon as his fingers grasped it he knew what it was.

__

Oh, dear God . . .

He never would have believed it. Enjolras had kept it.

* * *

__

I can't believe I forgot. Again!

Grantaire watched his breath curl in wisps before him in the cold air. He dug his hands deeper in his coat pockets, hoping that maybe he'd find some more money in them . . . like thirty francs or so.

__

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He'd gone around to Bossuet and Joly's apartment that morning. Joly had been there, had been apologetic, saying that he and the Eagle had already bought a gift and split the cost between them. "I think he'll like it," Joly had continued. As though that were supposed to be some great comfort.

__

I don't know why I bother to get him anything anyway. It's not like he'll want anything. Not from me.

Grantaire actually learned that October fifteenth was Enjolras' birthday back in 1828. But never had he remembered the date in time to get him anything that he wasn't ashamed to give. He had remembered that morning in 1831 with a jolt – and knowing that he would be virtually broke until the end of the week. Everybody else that day was accounted for, except for Bahorel who was taking a three-day holiday in prison after getting into a drunken brawl with a couple of off-duty Guardsmen.

Grantaire counted the spare change in his right hand. Still three francs.

__

I could get him a book, maybe . . . or half a book.

The question being, of course, which one? Too hard to decide. And the Musain was only three streets away.

__

Or just the money. Oh God, what am I thinking???

Grantaire walked on quickly, kicking great clods of wet leaves out of his way. And then a miracle of sorts happened . . . he looked up at just the right moment and noticed a street vendor squashed between a scrivener's booth and a roasted chestnut stall.

He arrived at the Musain five minutes later, flushed, breathless, already deciding that this had been a stupid idea and he'd be even stupider if he actually went through with it. Enjolras completely ignored him as he entered – nothing unusual there. So Grantaire forced himself to walk up to Enjolras' table, and both Enjolras and Feuilly stopped talking, looked up at him with raised brows.

Without saying a word – for once having none to say – Grantaire threw the gift down on the table and headed straight for his own, not looking back and intensely aware of the curious stares. He sat down and tried not to look, and Bossuet had to ask him whether he wanted a drink three times before he noticed that the man was talking to him at all.

Finally . . . with the first glass of wine inside him, he looked across the room at Enjolras' table. 

Enjolras was looking straight back at him. His expression was unreadable.

* * *

__

He kept it.

Grantaire held the papier-mache mask with trembling hands. There had been several characters to choose from, but it had been this one he had seen first, this one he knew it had to be. A rendering of Apollo – proportions classically correct, stylised curls adorning the mask in lieu of hair. Hollow eyes and perfect parted lips enabling the wearer to see and speak. The entire mask coated with gold paint and then lacquered for durability. A cheaper version of the masks that actors wear – the stall had been outside a small theatre.

The crow hopped back on the bureau as the young man rose slowly to his feet. It cocked its head at the mask, not recognising it as any object that it knew. But the boy did though, and that was the important thing.

Grantaire looked at his reflection in the round mirror atop the bureau, swallowed, closed his eyes. And then with trembling hand he brought the mask up to his face. Its smooth cool contours slipped perfectly over his own. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the face of a young god staring back at him, its inscrutable beauty concealing the ugliness of his grief and hate. Only the eyes were recognisable as his own. They burned out from behind the mask with a fire that was as dark as Hell itself, and yet so, so pure.

Five faces, ugly with malice, had laughed and leered down at Enjolras, delighting in his pain and in his terror.

And now this face was going to return the favour.


	15. Chapter 13

****

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

__

"Who's that yonder laughing at me  
Like I were the brunt of some hilarity?  
Who's that yonder laughing at me?  
Up jumped the devil – 1, 2, 3!"  
– NICK CAVE, "Up Jumped the Devil"

The tavern was almost empty, hardly surprising at this hour of night. Even if it had been full though, it would be almost impossible for the hubbub to penetrate this room where Mardisoir held office. He sat perfectly at ease, looking across the table at the man sitting opposite him. Garbonne was trembling and trying his hardest to control it.

"I'll know in a week or two if I can keep my job," Garbonne said. "Then I'd be able to pay you, I swear it."

Mardisoir spread his hands and smiled in a mockery of sympathy. "If only it were that simple," he said. "But your debt doesn't lie with me alone."

He didn't need to spell that one out any further. Garbonne's face grew even paler.

"Do we understand each other clearly?" There was no need for Mardisoir to raise his voice.

Garbonne looked up at him with the eyes of a man who is completely without hope and completely aware of the fact. Mardisoir was familiar with that look. "Yes," he said in a whisper. "But –"

There was always a "but", wasn't there? He raised his hand and the other man fell silent. "I seem to hear nothing but excuses from you people. I sometimes wonder if there's one in the world I haven't heard yet. You can leave now, or I'll have some of my friends escort you off the premises."

Garbonne drew himself up as well as he could. "I'll leave alone," he said in weary defiance as he turned and left. As he watched him go, Mardisoir thought idly about the fact that there was no way Garbonne would be able to make the payment. He thought about the pretty doe-eyed wife that his men had described to him, and the way she had huddled against her husband as he faced them during their first visit to his home.

They had taken Garbonne's silverware – it was only a couple of plates and cups, but it was collateral enough. Mardisoir crossed the room to the chest where he kept most collectables of that kind until it was time for them to be transferred on. He was surprised to find several bundles of money in the chest too. He had completely forgotten about that.

The door behind him opened again. Mardisoir stiffened with annoyance. "You will have the money for me by Thursday," he said without turning around, "or you and your wife will have to just face the consequences."

"I don't owe you any money."

Mardisoir turned quickly. The man standing in the doorway wasn't Garbonne, it was a stranger. He was dressed in a red waistcoat and black overcoat but wore no shirt, and wore one of those masks that actors wore, painted gold. He stood perfectly still, with his hands in his pockets. A large crow hunched on his right shoulder.

Mardisoir himself leaned back against his desk – seemingly relaxed but poised to spring forward should the need arise. The man had obviously calculated to surprise and had succeeded, but he was smaller than Mardisoir and alone.

"Can I help you?" he asked the masked man calmly.

"I rather think you can."

The man's voice was equally calm. Judging by the timbre, the man was younger than he was. He sounded educated, he definitely wasn't of the lower classes. Mardisoir scrutinised his unusual get-up and wondered if he was perhaps an acolyte of one of these bizarre cults or collectives the upper crust seemed to take such a delight in. The crow was obviously a tame pet – a mascot maybe? He'd certainly never encountered it before.

"Come in," Mardisoir said to the masked man.

Grantaire hesitated on the threshold. The crow shifted on his shoulder and he heard its voice echo quietly in his mind.

there's a loaded pistol in the top drawer right hand side

Bearing that in mind, Grantaire entered the room and shut the door behind him.

The man called Mardisoir looked to be about forty, maybe a little younger. His complexion was dark and he wore the jewellery of the Andalusian gypsies in his ears and on his fingers, but his harsh accents were entirely Parisian gutter. He was almost handsome, but heavily built and beginning to run to fat, much like a prize-winning bull soon to be consigned to pasture. He cracked his knuckles as Grantaire looked at him but intimidation was obviously not aforethought, it was just a long-standing habit. Mardisoir's hands were large and powerful. Grantaire thought of them balled into fists and slamming repeatedly into Enjolras.

"What can I do for you?" Mardisoir asked him. If the mask was unnerving him, he certainly wasn't showing it. Grantaire had to give him that.

"I've been asking around after someone like you," he replied. "A man named Bichot gave me your name."

He chose not to add at this point that Bichot had given him the name between ear-splitting screams and was now trembling and whimpering in some dark corner of Paris nursing four broken fingers.

Mardisoir tilted his head to one side, making a show of consideration. "I see. And what could you possibly want that Bichot would refer you to me, friend?"

The masked man too tilted his head, almost an uncanny mirror reflection. He was still standing near the door, at least ten feet away. "I want to ask you about getting a piece of work done. The term in use is, I believe, 'intimidation job'?"

The large man relaxed visibly and Grantaire could almost read his thought process as it happened: He's obviously a member of some group, been sent by the Great High Lord of Whatever to see about getting a rival slapped down. And he'll have plenty of money behind him, that's for sure.

Mardisoir smiled the smile of a man who understands precisely what is going on – a business deal – and where all parties concerned stand. "I could help you," he said carefully, "but it depends on exactly what needs to be done . . . and whom it is being done for."

"This won't be what you're expecting to hear," the masked man said, "but I represent no one but myself. This job . . . it's rather a personal affair."

"Nonetheless," Mardisoir shrugged, "I'll need some information on the target and what needs to be done exactly. So I can provide a price quote for you."

The man spread his hands. "That's precisely what I'm looking for, yes. A price quote."

Mardisoir grinned again. "I take it this is a lone target, then."

Grantaire nodded. "That's right. He's a student. One of those uppity young politicals who needs to be taught when to step down and shut up. If I can give you his address, would you be able to have someone pay him a visit?"

"That's generally how we handle such affairs." Mardisoir nodded and turned to pick a notebook and pencil up off the desk. They had been sitting next to an ornate snuffbox, obviously old and obviously expensive.

The crow was looking at it too.

that belonged to a writer named guillaume poitier fallen on hard times he borrowed money from mardisoir and wasn't able to repay it so mardisoir cut his throat and kept the snuffbox as a souvenir

Yet another damaged soul sitting alone and afraid, dreading the pounding on their door in the middle of the night. One out of hundreds that Grantaire had never met, who were far beyond help now, but perhaps they all would receive a little compensation tonight. He felt that bitter burning hatred rising in his throat again, forced it back down.

"Do you get many jobs like this?" he asked, making his voice as casual as he could.

Mardisoir shrugged. "From time to time. Could I have the address, please?"

"No. 40, Rougemont tenement. On the rue de Coutard. Do you know it?"

"I'll find it." Mardisoir was concentrating on writing the address, taking time to carefully spell out each letter. "And the man's name?"

"Justin Enjolras."

Mardisoir began to write again and then stopped. Frowned. When he looked up at Grantaire again, his eyes were suddenly suspicious.

"What is it?" Grantaire asked calmly.

"That name sounds somewhat familiar," Mardisoir said slowly.

"Oh." Even behind the mask, Grantaire's face eased into a complete blank. "Can you think why?"

Mardisoir shrugged. "If he's a political, maybe he's left his fliers lying somewhere on the street. I don't know. I hear a lot of names in this business, you understand. Now. Does he live alone?"

"Well, he did."

He looked up sharply. "Did? What do you mean?"

"He's dead now, actually. Been dead for five years."

Mardisoir's heavy brow furrowed as he frowned. His eyes, though veiled, took on a dangerous glint. He straightened, placed the notebook and pencil down on the desk again. Grantaire was aware of the crow's claws digging into the fabric of his coat.

careful boy

"Is this some sort of joke?" Mardisoir asked at last.

"Is it funny?" Grantaire returned. "You tell me."

* * *

. . . the men moved around him . . . they seemed so big, so strong . . . one of them pinned him against the wall . . . hot breath in his face stinking of garlic and bad brandy . . . he could hear furniture being overturned, books cascading on the floor, crazed drunken laughter . . . was he the only one this was happening to? . . . the very thought of Combeferre or Pontmercy or Prouvaire being treated like this made him feel even sicker and more afraid . . . _Why are you doing this?_ . . .

* * *

Mardisoir looked at the man standing before him and for the first time in the interview really sized him up. He had been able to get past his men in the main room of the tavern so he had obviously been able to drop the right name. If there had been a fight he would have been alerted, and although this man looked strong he wasn't large. And God only knew what was going on behind that damned mask.

The crow cawed suddenly and flapped across the room . . . to the large chest. It perched on the edge of the lid and looked between the two men.

The masked man still did not move.

"What are you talking about dead men for, friend?" Mardisoir growled. "I rather think it's time you told me what you really came here for."

"Exactly what I said," Grantaire replied. "I came here to find out about the 'job' you did on Justin Enjolras. You and your four friends."

* * *

. . . they were so strong . . . their hands were clumsy and savage . . . their boots were hard and heavy . . . they _hurt_ . . . one of them, the bald one, muffling his cries, making him choke on his own blood . . . then the hand slipped and he was able to gasp _"What do you want???"_ . . . more laughter and another savage blow were the only reply he received . . .

* * *

"I don't hold with bookkeeping," Mardisoir said dryly. "Too much like real work. And I can't remember anything about a Justin Enjolras off the top of my head save for the name. If you want details, you'll have to give me details."

Grantaire kept one eye on the crow and one eye on Mardisoir.

there's a sword of some kind in the corner next to the empty barrels but i don't think you'd have to time to get to it before he realised what you were up to

Thanks for the tip, he replied in silence before saying aloud: "So you remember nothing, then."

Mardisoir took a step forward. "Isn't that what I just said?"

Perhaps he was expecting the smaller man to flinch back. But he did not, and all of a sudden Mardisoir was aware of the hairs rising on the back of his neck and arms.

Grantaire allowed Mardisoir to step towards him – away from the desk and the drawer with the pistol. "Well, I'm not entirely sure how I should take that," he said quietly. "I'm hoping you won't correct me, but I sort of just assumed that violating young men wasn't one of your usual pastimes."

Mardisoir stopped short. _"What?"_

The masked man tilted his head up and looked straight back at him. "Are the memories flooding back yet?"

* * *

. . . he staggered back into the arms of one of them, the dark one with rings in his ears . . . all of a sudden he was stumbling, flying . . . smashing against the wall . . . his swimming sight was tinged with red and everything hurt so much . . . then the largest one had him, dragged him up . . . held him so he couldn't run, couldn't even fall . . . the dark man stood by his desk, wiping his bloodied hands on the pages of a book on his desk, it was _Candide_, the book Courfeyrac had given him . . . _"Haven't got much weight on you, boy,"_ the man was saying to him with a cold savage grin, _"Maybe you should be more careful how you throw it around."_ . . . what did he mean? None of this made any sense . . . _PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT_ . . .

* * *

"Justin Enjolras." The masked man whispered the words as though they were sacred. "A living light. An angel stepped from a pedestal, pure in body, mind and soul. Beautiful, brave and bright . . . and all too fragile. Alone in his apartment one dark November night."

Mardisoir would have taken another step forward, but he discovered that he couldn't force his legs to move. The room had suddenly become very cold, but he could see the stove out of the corner of his eye, the red coals glowing through the grate. He looked back at the masked man. Almost wished that he would move.

"If you knew him, I'm very sorry," he said as levelly as he could. "But it was a long time ago, I'm sure you understand that –"

"You think that _time_ is the only chasm that separates me from him?" The masked man threw his head back and laughed. The sound was terrifying and Mardisoir very nearly brought his hands up to cover his ears. Then the crow began cawing again and the two sounds collided, combined, obscenely loud in the silent room.

Mardisoir pointed a trembling finger towards the man. "Know this," he said, striving to make his own voice louder than the masked man's laughter. "We were just doing a job. We were hired hands, bought and paid for, that's all. It was nothing personal."

The final bitter laugh was wrenched from Grantaire's throat. He looked at the man shaking before him and knew that he was not only afraid, he was angry. Almost ready to spring at him and attack to kill. He almost wanted Mardisoir to try it - the sooner the better.

"Maybe it wasn't," he said in a voice thick with hate. "But this is."

He wanted to move towards him then, but the crow's voice held a sharp warning.

wait

* * *

. . . the bald man was holding him down on the floor . . . blood was trickling into his eyes from the cut on his brow and he couldn't blink it away . . . the bearded man was by the desk knocking books off the shelf . . . they sounded so loud when they hit the wooden floorboards . . . _"Bloody typical,"_ the bearded one was growling, _"Montparnasse prances off after some petticoat leaving us to do the heavy work, and what do we get? Little fucking rich boy and all he's got is forty francs and a pocket watch."_ . . . Who was Montparnasse? . . . he jerked in the man's arms and was rewarded with another heavy blow . . . the largest man was sprawled in his large armchair drinking from his bottle . . . looking at him with something in his eyes that Enjolras wasn't sure he understood but it made him so afraid . . . _"Might not be all we get out of it,"_ he said . . .

* * *

Mardisoir took a step backwards, jumped when he felt the desk behind him. Then he remembered the pistol. He glanced to his right, the drawer was right there.

"Do you actually want something?" he said, stalling for time. "Is there some sort of compensation you expect to get out of this? Because you won't get any. I advise you to leave now before you get hurt."

Grantaire shook his head. "You damaged my friend so completely you couldn't hurt me further if you tried."

That's what you think, Mardisoir thought to himself as he opened the drawer and withdrew the pistol in one swift motion. He aimed it at the man and fired. The report echoed sharply in the air.

He lowered it, blinking from the smoke. It was as though the man hadn't even realised that he had been shot until it was too late. He looked down at the wound then back up at him again. Mardisoir had perhaps three seconds to gloat before he realised that the man was not stumbling backwards, not bleeding, not crying out.

For some strange reason he looked at the crow, only to find that it was looking right back at him.

Grantaire waited until he was sure had Mardisoir's undivided attention once more. Then he slowly reached into the wound and extracted the bullet. He held it between two fingers and watched Mardisoir's face was Mardisoir watched the wound close up in on itself leaving only a round dimpled scar.

He held the bullet up for Mardisoir to see. "Oh, look – you tried," he smirked.

The pistol clattered to the ground, dropping noisily from Mardisoir's suddenly nerveless fingers.

"Oh God . . ." he whispered.

"No use praying now," Grantaire said coolly. "No one's listening. Just like you told him that no one was listening that night."

* * *

. . . everything had changed . . . their bloodshot bleary eyes were half-mad . . . there was a new and terrifying edge to their taunts . . . he was on the floor trying to drag himself away from them but there was nowhere to go . . . _"He very well could be a girl."_ . . . _"He's as pretty as one, that's for sure."_ . . . _"Bet you reel the petticoats in a dozen a time, eh, boy?"_ . . . then the large one's hand against his bruised cheek . . . _"What do you know about life in the real world, lad? You have no fucking idea."_ . . . and the others closing in behind him . . . only one of them, the bald one, was hanging back . . .

* * *

Grantaire surged forward. All of a sudden his hands were around the man's throat, he had him slammed up against the desk. That hated face was an inch away from his, shining with cold sweat and eyes bulging with fear.

"I know," he snarled. "You've never done anything like that to a man before, and never have since. The next morning you could barely remember doing it and certainly didn't want to. But you did do it – because he was helpless and because you _could_."

"We were _drunk!_" Mardisoir's voice was a low, strangled shriek. "One thing led to another, it all just _happened!_"

* * *

. . . the men were on top of him . . . _NO!!!_ . . . he tried to fight them but they were so strong . . . _OH GOD, PLEASE NO!!!_ . . . a rough hand grabbed his head and wrenched it round . . . _STOP IT!!!_ . . . ugly laughing faces leering down at him . . . a shard of broken glass . . . _"Give us a smile, boy, or shall we cut one into your face for you?"_ . . . one of them was standing back, the bald one . . . _STOP THEM!!!_ . . . but he didn't say a word . . . that deep ugly voice behind him . . . _"Me first."_ . . . oh God, he was so afraid . . . _SOMEONE HELP ME!!!_ . . .

* * *

Grantaire struck the man then, and the flesh felt good stinging against his knuckles. Mardisoir gasped beneath the blow. His nose began to bleed.

"Atrocities don't just happen," he told the man. "He never recovered from what you did to him."

"D-did he die from his wounds?" Mardisoir gasped. "We weren't supposed to hurt him that badly!"

Grantaire threw the larger man up across the desk then, as easily as Mardisoir had thrown Enjolras across the room. There was a letter-opener –

her name was marie aimery she was a widow and grandmother who lived alone it was a wrong address but they killed her anyway

– on the desk and he grabbed it up, held the tip against Mardisoir's throat. Not as sharp as a proper knife, but sharp enough to do the necessary damage. Mardisoir appeared to realise that, he stopped struggling.

"No," Grantaire said in a low voice. "He threw himself onto the barricades in the riots of June 1832. Nothing else could get rid of the filth that you and your friends left on him, so he tried to wash it away with his own blood. But as for what I came for . . ." He grabbed a handful of Mardisoir's hair and brought his head up. ". . . About these friends. I want their names."

Mardisoir was silent, save for his ragged breathing. Grantaire cocked his head, smiled benevolently behind the mask. "How do you think I got Bichot to give me yours? Here's a clue – it involved fingers."

The man fought beneath him, but only for a moment. Grantaire brought the blade of the letter-opener towards Mardisoir's right hand and by pressing lightly pinned it to the table top.

"You can tell me your friend's names now, or lose some appendages and then tell me. It's up to you."

Mardisoir swallowed. "I-it was six years ago," he whispered pleadingly. "I'm not sure I can remember."

* * *

. . . obscene pain . . . jeering drunken laughter all around him . . . _"Hold him still!"_ . . . that hand across his mouth . . . stifling his screams . . .

* * *

The blade pressed down into the back of his hand. He felt it pierce the skin, felt the warm blood well around it.

"Alright!" The pressure lessened.

The mask looked down at him. He could see the man's eyes behind it, and oh how he wished he couldn't.

"I'm not sure where you'll be able to find them. But they're all here in Paris. Brujon. Gueulemer. Laveuve. That's who they were. It was Gueulemer who . . ." he closed his eyes, "who started it."

Grantaire nodded. "Plus Mardisoir makes four. What about the fifth man? The one who came later. The one with the knife."

Mardisoir only looked up at him. "I can't tell you that," he said at last. Before the masked man could speak, he continued. "You see that chest over there? There's silverware, jewellery, and about six hundred francs. You can take it all. I'll never speak of you to anyone."

The masked man looked down at him in silence for a long moment. "No thank you," he said. "Which finger shall we start with? You choose. I'm not that fussed."

Mardisoir said nothing, so he decided to start from the outside and work his way on in. He was not looking at Mardisoir's face when the man spoke next.

"He didn't give in without a fight, I'll give your friend that. I can't speak for the others, but I certainly had a few bruises of my own the next morning."

He looked up then. Mardisoir's face was the colour of ashes, but his eyes were bright, lucid and malevolent. The blade hovered just above the finger where it joined the hand.

The crow hopped up onto the desk, looked at him.

don't listen to him

"And the noise! I thought we'd have to gag him."

His voice when he came back to the Musain, Grantaire realised. It was a moment before he could collect himself and look at Mardisoir once more. His nose was broken and blood was oozing down his face, but Mardisoir was smiling.

"Of course, that's not all his mouth was good for. But Brujon's the one you'll have to ask about that."

And then Mardisoir twisted beneath him and Grantaire stumbled. A heavy boot kicked sideways, striking him, making him fall. Mardisoir rolled sideways and landed awkwardly, but on his feet. He seized up the pistol, half-remembering that it could prove useless. The crow flew from the desk to the top of one of the barrels.

"If he hadn't made such a fuss, we wouldn't have made such a mess of him," Mardisoir snarled.

Grantaire sprang to his feet following the crow with his eyes.

the sword boy

The sword was propped against a barrel, its sheath lying nearby. Already Grantaire's fingers were closing around the handle. Deciding not to give Mardisoir time to let off another shot, he lunged forward, using the blade to twist Mardisoir's firing hand to the side, across his own body. Then he kicked, making solid contact with Mardisoir's crotch. Once upon a time he would have frowned upon such things as dirty fighting. Oddly enough, now he didn't give a damn.

Mardisoir buckled to his knees. Grantaire brought the blade up to his face, then traced slowly across to his right ear, filled with golden loops.

"The name of the fifth man."

Mardisoir said nothing. So Grantaire gave the blade a flick and one of the golden loops tore out of the gypsy man's ear and hung glimmering dully on the end of the blade. Blood poured from the wounded ear and Mardisoir's hand went straight to it as he huddled whimpering on the floor.

"His name," Grantaire repeated.

The word was muffled but discernible. "M-montparnasse."

Grantaire lowered the blade. "Two more questions. Firstly, how much money were you paid?"

Mardisoir still did not look up at him. "A hundred francs," he muttered. "For each of us. Fifty before, and fifty after."

"And who was it paid you?"

"We never found out," he said. "Montparnasse came to us with the proposition. The transaction was done through him."

His ear hurt so much . . . everything seemed so far away. He closed his eyes and for a dizzying moment the student was standing before him, clothes ripped and bloody, but his gaze burned. He opened his eyes again and it was the masked man looming above him – and the crow hunched on his shoulder once more. There was something closer to him, and it took him a moment to recognise it as the barrel of his own pistol.

"Rape this," he heard the masked man say.

There was a loud noise. The world turned red and spun away. Mardisoir was surprised to find that he was almost glad to let it go.


	16. Chapter 14

**

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

** _

"Whatsoever I feared has come to light.  
Whatsoever I fought off became my life.  
Just when every day seemed to greet me with a smile,  
Sunspots have faded and now I'm doing time."  


_ – SOUNDGARDEN, "Fell On Black Days" 

The gunshot exploded hotly, seeming to turn the air itself red with its velocity. The crow's very nerve-strings twitched and sang, and the bird felt something deep within itself react to the vibrancy of a soul so abruptly expelled from its heavy mortal cradle of flesh. _One down_, it told itself.

Grantaire lowered the pistol and knelt down beside the corpse sprawled across the floor. Mardisoir's remaining eye stared off blankly at the wall, wide and opaque. The right side of his head had been almost completely obliterated.

"No need for you to journey on alone, damned soul," he whispered into the dead man's ear. "Wait a little while longer – your friends will be joining you soon enough. Wait and see if old Charon's ferry is strong enough to take you all at once."

He reached across Mardisoir's body and retrieved the sword. The golden hoop still hung on the fine point of the blade, slick with blood. He slipped the earring into one of his pockets, not quite knowing why, and examined the blade briefly. It was crafted with fine steel, and the sword felt slightly heavier in his hand than the practice single-sticks he had used when he trained, a thousand and one years ago.

The crow was still on the desk, but now it croaked a warning.

watch out

Grantaire was already on guard, one weapon in either hand.

The door to Mardisoir's "office" burst open and two men stumbled into the room, two of the three who had been sitting in the front room of the tavern when Grantaire had arrived. Their eyes reflected surprise and shock back at Grantaire as they took in the sight of their dead employer and his masked assassin standing over him.

Grantaire remained as still and silent as a coiled spring, unsurprised to discover that he was rather hoping that they would try to make a move against him. Behind him, the crow shifted restlessly.

_you'll spill enough blood before this is over boy so just be careful_

The largest of the two large men took a step towards him. Grantaire raised the pistol – he hadn't had time to re-load it, but the man didn't know that, did he? Obviously not, he stopped still once more.

"My quarrel isn't with you," he told the two men flatly. "I'm finished here. Let me pass."

The man, chagrined at being held at bay so easily, now bristled visibly. "Who the _hell_ are you?" he demanded furiously.

"Who I am doesn't matter. My name won't be recognised."

The man glowered. He appeared ready to step forward again when the other man spoke.

"Tell us who you work for, then."

Grantaire shifted his attention to the second man. Just as heavily built, but a couple of inches shorter. His blunt-featured face was set off by two sharp and somewhat clever eyes.

"Someone who was done a great deal of harm."

"I gather." The man's eyes slid down to Mardisoir's body, then back up to Grantaire. "But do you –"

"Do you know who _that_ man worked for?" the first man interrupted sneeringly. His heavy hands were clenched into fists as he too glanced down at Mardisoir. "He was with Montparnasse. That name sound familiar?"

Grantaire closed his eyes and saw a knife held in a sure and steady hand, bright with blood and malice. "It does."

When he opened his eyes again, the first man was grinning. "In that case, you should know that Montparnasse always finds out when someone makes a strike against one of his. And he _acts_."

Grantaire glanced over to the corner where he had found the sword. Without speaking, he walked over and picked up the belt and sheath, into which he slid the blade. Then he looked back at the two men who were standing their ground.

"I'm going to leave now," he said quietly. "Don't try to stop me, because I don't want to have to kill you. I want you to pass on a message to Montparnasse, and to Brujon, Gueulemer and Laveuve, should you know who and where they are."

The second man's gaze did not waver. "What's the message?"

__

I've always wondered what the going price for a soul is these days, Grantaire found himself thinking. _And now I know. Five hundred francs._

He forced himself to focus and look back at the man who had spoken. "Tell them that their sins have been remembered and a debt collector approaches," he replied. "One whom all the hounds of Hell wouldn't be able to keep at bay."

"So you're making _threats_ now," the first man snarled. But after receiving a quick glance from his companion, he grudgingly stepped away from the open door.

"Thank you." Grantaire nodded curtly at him and continued walking forward. The crow flew to his shoulder.

He stepped out into the low-ceilinged corridor and walked swiftly towards the doorway that opened into the front room of the tavern. He could hear the second man tell the first to look to the body and then hurry into the corridor, so he stopped and looked back.

The second man was gazing at him, his eyes narrowed.

"Do they know for whom this debt is being collected?" he asked.

Grantaire considered for a moment. "Tell them that Justin Enjolras sends his regards."

The man nodded, face grave. The crow stirred on Grantaire's shoulder.

__

come now leave this place

And he needed no second bidding.

The wind had picked up once more and Grantaire felt its cool familiar fingers brush roughly through his hair as he emerged into the street. The cobblestones glimmered dully up at him, reflecting everything and nothing. Despite the wind the air tasted flat and still, like stale water that has been left too long in a cup in a closed room. He thought of the dead man lying in the back room of the tavern and he thought of the dead man's soul, shrieking and howling its way down towards – what exactly?

His thoughts were interrupted by the crow, inquisitive.

__

that earring can't be worth much why did you take it

"Souvenir."

__

if you wanted a souvenir there was plenty else you could have taken six hundred francs for instance

Grantaire shook his head. "No. The man earned his blood money. He can keep it, for all the good it does him now. I took all I needed from him."

__

you're handy with a sword by the way

He shrugged as he buckled the belt around his waist. The sword hung comfortably at his right side concealed beneath his long coat. The gun he tucked into an inner coat pocket on the other side. "Handier as I used to be. What's that about, anyway?"

The crow ruffled its feathers.

__

you've been given the skills you'll need that's all

"How generous of . . ." Grantaire shrugged again as he began walking. "Of whoever's responsible for all of this."

__

glad you think so

"Would have been just as generous to stop it happening in the first place though." Grantaire's voice was hard and savage, and it bit into the crow far deeper than the wind. "If someone out there cared enough to bring a dead drunkard back to life so he could play fortune's fool for just a while longer, surely they could have cared enough to stop those monsters from . . ."

He pulled the mask from his face and rubbed at his watering eyes.

The crow remained silent, allowing the man to re-gather his thoughts as he strode onwards. It wondered whether its charge had any real understanding of what he had begun and of what would be asked of him.

A small ragged child hunched in a doorway, glancing disinterestedly at Grantaire as he passed. Before he knew what he was doing, Grantaire stopped, produced the earring and threw it down to the urchin. The boy squinted, assessing the piece of jewellery and smiling faintly.

"Won't fetch much," Grantaire said gruffly, "but it'll fetch something, eh?"

He continued on his way.

__

so much for a souvenir

Grantaire couldn't quite bring himself to smile. "I knew a boy, once. Showed a great deal more pluck than anybody in his situation should ever have been able to."

__

where is he

"Gone. Just like the rest of us."

__

not all

"What's that supposed to mean?" Grantaire asked dully. "But I supposed nothing's changed after all. _He's_ still right here where he's always been – inside me and around me and a million miles away, and the very stones in the street seem to sing his name to me." He sucked in a chilly breath. "I want him back. I want him safe. That's all."

* * *

The damned match wouldn't light, or maybe that was his stupid clumsy fingers, trembling too much to hold the thing steady. Finally it did – a flash and a small orange flame quivering in the still air – and he threw the match into the stove, onto the blood-spattered pages he'd torn out of the book, onto the clothes he'd been wearing, torn and stained with even more blood. He didn't know what he was burning them all for, except that he no longer wanted to own these things, he didn't want to have to look at them ever again.

__

If I could tear my own skin off, I'd burn that too.

He hunched on the floor of a cold barren room, keeping his raw red eyes fixed on the little flames licking at paper and cloth, consuming fragments of pain and growing larger on them. The cat was mewling behind him but he didn't dare look around, because that meant he would have to see his home, his very life torn apart and the bloodstains on the carpet and the wooden floor, the pages . . .

One of the sheets lay a short distance away and forcing himself not to acknowledge the pain that ripped through him with every movement, he somehow summoned the energy to crawl over and reach for it. Torn and creased, irrevocably polluted, he could scarcely believe that was his own handwriting swimming up to meet him, neat lines in dark ink: _Pride, strength, self-respect – how can these pre-requisites for greatness be obtained by a people subjected? In order to be great, man must have –_

He threw that one into the fire as well.

As he watched it blaze fiercely, then shrivel and crumple and melt away into hot ash, he wondered how he could be this close to the heat and yet feel so completely frozen. The room was silent save for the fire and the cat and the ringing in his ears, but still he could hear their voices, feel their hands upon him. Everything hurt and he wasn't even sure if he could feel his heart beating.

Somehow he heard Combeferre, a voice of calm and reason. _You're hurt. You know you should see a doctor. You need help._ But the voice was thin and filtered and brittle in a way it had never been before. For what felt like the first time ever, there was nothing to be gained there. At the moment, the very idea of looking into those familiar grey eyes ever again seemed obscene. Unthinkable.

* * *

__

"I should have been there!" There was a raging sob in Grantaire's voice that he could hold back no longer. "That night, I should have been there with him. I'd intended to, I was going to follow him, I think in some way I knew that something would happen. I was going to follow him like I'd done before, and just wait in the alcove in that hall, keep watch over him. But I didn't, I sat there in the Musain and _drank_, almost hating him for what he does to me. If I'd been there, then I could have done something. _I could have stopped this from happening!_"

A passer-by glanced up at the wild man, startled, then hastily averted their eyes and hurried on by. Grantaire walked on, regardless. The crow could sense its charge's grief, the searing white heat of it. I'm so sorry, it thought. I'm sorry for everything that's already happened, and for everything that could well happen from here on in.

A clock somewhere struck three, rousing both bird and man from their separate thoughts.

"How time flies when you're having fun," Grantaire said bitterly.


	17. Chapter 15

**

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

** _

"Existence – well, what does it matter?"  
I exist on the best terms I can.  
The past is now part of my future,  
The present is well out of hand."  


_ – JOY DIVISION, "Heart and Soul" 

Unsurprisingly enough, the dream involved the student. Laveuve rarely dreamed – even as a child his slumber was usually deep, dark and completely silent – but when he did dream he dreamed of monstrosities even greater than those he saw in his waking hours. The fair-haired young man was a recurring figure in Laveuve's dreams, even all these years later, and it was unsurprising because when Laveuve thought about it, that was where all of this had begun. Laveuve had hurt people before, that was undeniable, but when he dealt the first blow to that boy – a hard right that sent him spinning to the floor – his understanding of the difference between wrong and right became blindingly, shatteringly lucid in a way it had never been before or since.

He walked through a street he did not recognise and into a tavern with what looked like a Latin phrase of some kind painted across the facade. He could smell gunpowder in the air. The tavern was completely empty and he knew to walk across the floor and straight up the stairs to the second room, just as he knew who would await him there.

The young man was leaning against the far wall, arms folded. His face was calm and his eyes were cold. Laveuve could tell that the young man was dead and even in his dream he realised that he had known this all along. _I'm sorry_, he tried to say, but the words stuck in his throat as they often did in his dreams. 

__

I'm beyond harm now, the young man replied in a voice that somehow was not his own. _And I'm beyond help. What's done can't be undone._ He seemed to speak without rancour but his words sent chills down Laveuve's spine.

The young man – this Enjolras – stepped slowly towards him. Laveuve might have fled except that his feet were suddenly as heavy as stone. So instead he waited in this strange room, suddenly aware of a dark figure sitting at a table in the corner. He did not actually see the stranger – he kept his eyes on the fair-haired man – but he was aware of him nonetheless.

__

There's always a choice, Justin Enjolras told him. _Always a chance._

And then one of his hands flew out and seized Laveuve's. Laveuve stood rigid as the icy fingers forced his hand to open, palm upwards, and placed something in it, wrapping his fingers tight around it once more. He retained his grasp on Laveuve's wrist and although the look in his eyes suggested that the young man was trying to help him, Laveuve knew in the depths of his soul that this was anything but the case.

__

It usually comes at a cost, Justin Enjolras said in that same strange, flat voice. _But this one's for free._

And then he turned away and was gone.

Laveuve slowly opened his right hand to see what the young man had pressed into it, and stared down at the bullet cupped in his palm. Then someone somewhere began pounding on a door and Laveuve opened his eyes and returned to the waking world.

He began to sit up slowly and quietly, as not to rouse his wife – but then remembered that she was long gone. As always the remembrance came bitterly but he had no time to dwell on that now because the hammering at the door persisted.

Dragging his clothes on as he went, Laveuve made his way to the door and opened it as far as the chain would allow. Corinot stood in the hall, rainwater dripping off his overcoat and low peaked cap and pooling on the floor. His eyes were steely and his thin-lipped mouth set in a taut line.

"Something's happened," Corinot said. "You better let me in."

__

There's been another fucking crisis, was Laveuve's first weary thought; quickly followed with a resentful _And he had to come to me, didn't he?_ Aloud, he grunted in affirmation and held the door open for the other man.

There were still dull red embers glowing in the fireplace, and Laveuve stirred them up before throwing another piece of wood over them. Corinot was seated at the table, his cap now in his hands as he twisted and tugged at the thick coarse material.

"What's happened?" Laveuve asked brusquely, still half asleep and annoyed at the fact.

Corinot looked up quickly and met his gaze without flinching. "Mardisoir's dead."

It took a few seconds for the words to make their way through the mist enshrouding Laveuve's mind. When they did, the mist rapidly dissipated. He knew better than to question his man – if Corinot said it, it was indisputable fact.

"When?" he asked flatly. "How?"

"Less than an hour ago." Corinot exhaled a long breath of air and for the first time Laveuve saw just how shaken up he was. "Someone walked right into the Scylla and Charybdis and shot him. I was there when it happened, in the front room, along with Briel and that new man. When we heard the shot, Briel and I ran into the room and saw the man standing right there, with Mardisoir at his feet."

"You were there," Laveuve repeated. "Then why didn't you stop it?"

His tone was sharp and Corinot winced at it. "He told us that Mardisoir was expecting him, that Bichot had sent him there. He knew the password and everything."

Numbed, Laveuve nodded slowly as he sat down. He became aware that he had broken out into a cold sweat – or was that from the dream?

"Where's the man now?"

Corinot blinked as though he hadn't quite caught the question. "He got away," he said at last.

"Got away?" Laveuve blinked furiously at the other man. "You and Briel were there, and you couldn't hold him between the two of you?"

"He had a gun," Corinot muttered.

"Right." Laveuve nodded slowly again, processing this as rapidly as he could and feeling sicker by the moment. Mardisoir dead, just like that. And it had to happen now, of all times. He passed a hand over his face and felt the stubble prickle beneath his fingers. He must have forgotten to shave again. "Well, what did the man look like?"

Corinot opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

"Speak, man," Laveuve snapped.

Corinot spread his large hands. "I – I'm not sure," he said at last, sounding as close to helpless as Laveuve had ever heard him. "I didn't get a good look at his face, neither of us did. He was wearing a mask."

That wasn't entirely unheard of, Laveuve had to admit. "What type of mask? Was it one of the, what do they call themselves these days, the Banditos?"

"No, it wasn't black, it wasn't one of the Banditos. It was a gold mask, like you see the actors wearing in the theatre plays." He frowned. "I've never heard of that before."

"Neither have I." Laveuve closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that that horrible dizzy sick feeling would go away. It didn't. When he reopened his eyes, Corinot was looking at him and his usual stolid countenance was returning. Laveuve was more or less grateful – Corinot could usually be depended upon.

"He was working for someone; he asked for you by name."

"Just me?"

"No – all of you. Including Montparnasse."

__

"Montparnasse."

Corinot nodded, obviously as taken aback as Laveuve was himself. "He didn't strike me as a local – he said he was after Montparnasse, but the way he said it, I don't think he quite grasped the ramifications of it all."

"Whoever sent him probably didn't either." Laveuve almost had to laugh. "Otherwise he wouldn't have sent a single man, he'd have sent an army."

"That's what I thought. But there was something about this man. I can't put my finger on it, but I could imagine he'd be worthy of much consideration in a fight, weapon or no weapon."

"That may be. But what was his message?"

"He said that your sins have been remembered and that he was here to collect a debt of some sorts. And he said that Justin Enjolras sends his regards. Does that mean anything to you?"

__

Justin Enjolras sends his regards.

Laveuve died a hundred thousand deaths in that very second. But he kept his countenance guarded and his voice level as he replied, "Not right now, no. I'll have to think about that one."

Thankfully Corinot didn't suspect anything. "I think he wanted me to pass that message on to all of you. But I'll just leave it with you, will I?"

Inwardly reeling and grasping for any solid thought to cling to, it took Laveuve a moment to realise that despite the seemingly careless tone, Corinot was almost pleading with him. He did not want to be the bringer of dark warnings to Montparnasse or any of his associates. Laveuve really couldn't blame him.

"What did you do with the body?" he managed to ask at last.

"I got Briel and the other man to dispose of it, what do you think? I'm not entirely stupid."

Corinot's voice was bitter and Laveuve knew that he was ashamed of being shaken so.

"I know you're not," he replied. "And thank you for coming here so quickly, you did well."

He rose to his feet and Corinot did the same, looking steadier for having shared the news and passed on the designated message.

"Is there anything else I should do?" the man asked him.

Laveuve considered for a moment. "Ensure that there are no signs of a struggle at the Scylla and Charybdis. As far as you and the other two are concerned, Mardisoir was gone from the tavern by midnight. Do you think any of Mardisoir's men had anything to do with this?"

Corinot did not even need to pause to consider. "No. Definitely not. Since '35 they've all been as loyal as you could wish for."

"That's what I thought. In that case, inform them. From now on they will report to you, and you will report to me. And I want Bichot found."

"I don't think he'd be behind this."

"Neither do I – the man's got the impetus of a damp dishrag. But he's talked to this masked assassin and that's the best lead we've got. So have him found, and if he won't come forward then drag him out yourself."

Corinot nodded again, brisker this time. Laveuve extended his hand to clasp Corinot's, but when Corinot looked down at it his expression changed. "Your hand," he said sharply.

Laveuve looked down at it. He had dug his nails into the flesh of his palm while sleeping, deep enough to draw blood. Now that he noticed it, he began to notice the discomfort – faint, a stinging buzzing sensation that resonated deeper within him.

__

It usually comes at a cost but this one's for free. 

He withdrew the hand hastily and was glad when Corinot declined to comment further. Instead, the other man donned his cap and made for the door - and hesitated.

"Will you be telling Montparnasse?" he asked carefully.

"No." Laveuve shook his head. "He'll be back in Paris next week and this might very well be cleared up by then."

"You think the man will show himself again?"

Laveuve shrugged and covered his unease with irritation. "I'm no clairvoyant, Corinot. Go."

As Corinot strode out into the rain, no doubt finding security of sorts in his new status as well as being given an immediate task to focus on, Laveuve remained sitting at the table with his right hand clenched tightly into a fist – not caring that his nails were biting even deeper into the shallow crescents burned into his palm.

__

Justin Enjolras sends his regards.

Back then he had had a wife and child and no job. Montparnasse – even he had been something less than a major player back then; a petty cut-throat who either ran with some sly old fox of a trickster (Tavernier, was it?) or slunk about the back streets and ragged velvet bordellos of the city alone with his tailored waistcoat and bright blade gleaming. He did most things for the right fee and men who knew Montparnasse also knew that if they approached him at any given time, chances were he would be aware of a job that somebody wanted done and was more than happy to share the work around.

The first time was in 1829 and he hadn't approached Montparnasse himself, a friend had been the go-between. The job had been a simple one, all he had to do was take care of box of jewellery for a few days until somebody else came to transfer it on. He hadn't dared to ask where the necklaces and rings had come from but it had kept a roof over his family's head for another month. But the longer Laveuve looked for honest work and found none, the easier it became to go to Montparnasse, virtually holding his cap in hand, and shamefacedly ask if there was anything going. Handling property soon became acquiring property but every time Laveuve walked out of a stranger's house with a laden box under his arm, leaving a shaken man or weeping woman behind, he told himself that it couldn't be helped. If he hadn't done it then somebody else would have and God knew he needed the money.

He had received offers for more ambitious jobs – the first had been in the spring of '30, some poor brave fool fighting tenant eviction in a building on the rue Saint-Jacques needed, as Brujon put it mildly, to be made an example of. The job would have paid well but Laveuve turned it down, almost disgusted . . . even more disgusted because he had caught himself seriously considering it. But by November 1831 his eldest son was ill and his wife was eager to leave their ill-appointed rooms for something better now that they could – he never told her what he did that brought the money in, she thought he had become foreman at the factory – and he just needed a little more to make the first payment on the new apartment.

He received word from Brujon one day and with an uneasy churning sensation in his stomach he showed up at the designated tavern at the designated time, to find Montparnasse there, with Mardisoir as well as Gueulemer, whom he did not know so well at that time.

* * *

"What's this about?" Gueulemer asked.

Montparnasse deliberately adjusted one of the cuffs on his fancy new coat. A dark purple material, Laveuve noted, with a sheen to it. "There's a student who lives in a building on the rue de Coutard," he replied.

"So?"

"I've been asked to find some friends who'll go pay him a little visit."

Laveuve shifted uneasily in his seat. "A visit? What for?"

"To deliver a fruit basket and our fondest regards. What do you think?"

Mardisoir smirked. "What's his name?" There was no need for him to further express his contempt of the fine young gentlemen they all saw traipsing around the city, often walking through streets where they had no right to be just as if they owned them.

Montparnasse sipped his wine before replying. "Justin Enjolras. He's a political – part of a group that call themselves the Alphabet Lovers Society, or something like that."

Brujon nodded. "The Friends of the ABC." He spoke the words mockingly and they were greeted with derisive snorts from around the table. "Schoolboys for the most part, playing at changing the world. You know the type."

Montparnasse shrugged an elegant shoulder. "I try to stay out of politics."

"Most of these students are harmless enough, though. What'd he do – he owe someone money?"

"Stepped on the wrong set of toes."

Already Laveuve had decided that he did not like this. But he remained silent.

"He's another Beaulieu, then," Gueulemer grunted. "So what's the story? Who wants him dead?"

"You know I exercise a policy of absolute discretion," Montparnasse replied coolly, "and they don't want him dead – just shaken up a little."

"Shaken up." Gueulemer looked dubious. "That sounds inexpensive."

Montparnasse smirked. "That was my exact same thought. But there'll be a hundred francs in it for each of you."

The silence hung heavily in the air. Brujon finally broke it with a long whistle. "Why so much for just a beating?"

Montparnasse shrugged. "Ours is not to question why. Ours is to pay this Monsieur Enjolras a visit and do our best to persuade him to consider a change in hobby."

"How far do we take it?" Gueulemer asked.

"We shouldn't have to do too much damage. He's just a schoolboy remember, probably never gone toe-to-toe with the likes of us in his life. Slap him around a little, mess up his nice papers, show him what a sharp knife can do in the right pair of hands . . ." Montparnasse smiled radiantly at them all and Laveuve felt almost physically ill. "And there you have it."

"When do we do it?" Brujon's hazel eyes were as mild as always.

Montparnasse finished his wine. "It needs to be done by the day of the Fernier trial. You all up for it?"

Gueulemer laughed. "For a hundred francs? That's the most I've ever been paid not to kill a man, I must say."

"Mardisoir?"

The gypsy man grunted. "Do we get the money all at once?"

"Fifty before, and fifty after. The deal's being done through me."

Montparnasse seemed to take Mardisoir's second grunt for affirmation. He looked over at Laveuve, eyebrows raised. "Laveuve?"

All eyes turned to him and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't do these jobs," he said at last.

Montparnasse stifled a laugh. "These jobs have never paid a hundred francs before."

"Look." Laveuve stared down at his hands and avoided the young man's eyes. "Will you need a look-out? I'll do that for you."

Mardisoir shook his head, half amused and half bemused. "This is the rue de Coutard, man. Everybody there who knows what's best for them knows to keep out of other people's business. We won't have to worry about neighbours stepping forward, trust me."

Gueulemer, never subtle, just shrugged. "If you're not game, that's fine by me." He looked over to Montparnasse. "Do we get to split his hundred between us, then?"

Montparnasse waved him down, still looking straight at Laveuve. His smooth brow creased with a mockery of concern. "How _is_ your oldest brat, Laveuve? Still unwell? Medicine's so expensive, isn't it? These doctors are worse than highway bandits."

* * *

Afterwards, he had tried to tell himself that he wasn't like the others. He had _needed_ that money. And it wasn't as though he had done – _that_ – the way the others had. But every time he tried to convince himself that he had only done what was necessary for himself and his family, he remembered the dizzy sickened look in the boy's eyes as he tried to lift himself up from the floor, seemingly unaware of the blood already dripping down his ashen face. He remembered how afterwards, Brujon and Mardisoir had congratulated him on being the first to deal a blow. He remembered how thin and frail the boy's shoulders had seemed beneath his large hands, and how he had continued to fight and struggle even as they pinned him to the floor. And Laveuve remembered standing surrounded by a torrent of noise and raw animal pain, knowing that things had gone completely out of control, and just standing there eyes closed and inwardly screaming _I don't care if they fucking kill him, just please God, please PLEASE make him be quiet . . ._

One hundred francs. One hundred reasons why.

The pain in his hand still gnawed dully but he didn't mind that, it gave him something to think about. Something other than his life undone and a wife who called him a murderer and looked at him with eyes of hate and the nightmares in which he was surrounded by the people he'd damaged over the years and how they never responded to his pleas for forgiveness, only stared. Now he could hear cries and sobs echoing in the rain that drove down against the roof. And why was there a strange uncertain fear rising and creeping round him, brushing against him as softly as black feathers? 

__

There's always a choice. There's always a chance. It usually comes at a cost, but this one's for free.


	18. Chapter 16

**

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

** _

"Thought he had it all  
Before they called his bluff.  
Found out that his skin  
Just wasn't thick enough.  
Wanted to go back to how it was before.  
Thought he had lost every thing –  
Then he lost a whole lot more.  
A fool's devotion  
Swallowed up in an empty space.  
The tears of regret  
Frozen to the side of his face."  


_ – NINE INCH NAILS,  
"I'm Looking Forward to Joining You Finally" 

Soft blurred shadows danced across the floorboards and the cat was prancing at their edges, seemingly entranced by the changing shapes and motions. The crow watched from the vantage point of the desk, atop a small pile of books and papers the boy had carried from the next room. They smelt of ink and dust and loneliness and sadness.

The boy too was moving across the floor. The crow listened to the even rhythmic tattoo of his feet against the wooden floorboards and the soft whistling whiplash of the sword's blade through the still air. The boy's red waistcoat seemed even redder by the burnished glow of the many candles he had lit and placed around the room.

His moves had been tentative and clumsy at first, he had held the sword awkwardly and shifted his balance unevenly from one foot another. The crow watched curiously as he performed a series of strange steps over and over, slowly increasing his speed and varying the patterns he wove across the floor. The boy's growing confidence had been palpable as memories of moves learned years ago began to return, and soon the rhythm of the sword and the boy's feet began to blend and complement one another, in a ritualistic dance the crow did not understand, but recognised as somehow important.

The man's brow was furrowed with concentration and his eyes were set on some distant point or place. He had not broken into a sweat, his breathing was even, and his heartbeat was as implacable and steady as a war drum. He slid his sword into the sheath at his side and stood in the centre of the floor, head up, hands by his sides.

__

"Prepare."

For a moment Grantaire heard his old teacher's voice, clipped and cool, and assumed the correct stance, hands behind his back and weight resting on his left leg, right foot forward.

* * *

Enjolras sat at his bedroom table, as he had been sitting for maybe the past twenty minutes. It occurred to him that even with the curtains drawn the early morning light was insufficient to see close enough to shave properly and that he really should re-light the candle. But today the simple act of going to his door to collect his hot water had been exhausting and although he knew he couldn't just sit with his head listlessly propped on one hand for the entire morning, he was too tired to contemplate any further actions at this moment.

A man and woman somewhere nearby began shouting obscenities at one another. Within moments fellow tenants were expressing their protest at this impromptu dramatic performance by thumping the walls. The thuds were distant but Enjolras could feel them resonating in the pit of his churning stomach and if he had eaten anything in the past twenty-four hours, he would have thrown up.

* * *

__

"Draw."

Long ago, this had all been so difficult. But now Grantaire's right hand flew down as if on its own accord and drew the sword so quickly that it made no sound as it left the scabbard. Almost within the same second, the blade was resting lightly against his right shoulder and he was standing upright, his left hand tucked lightly behind his back.

__

"First position."

For a brief moment Grantaire heard the whistle of a dozen blades and heard the stamp of a dozen feet and suddenly he was fourteen and learning to be a man worthy of his father's name again. He vaguely recalled being unable to become such a man but now that hardly seemed to matter. Now he could not even remember what his father had looked like.

* * *

Suddenly, fear and panic rose in him with a gut-wrenching ferocity and he was already halfway out of his seat and half turned around in preparation to defend himself before he realised that what had startled him had only been the sound of somebody making a noisy exit from No. 38. His pulse racing so hard that it made his head hurt, Enjolras slowly sat again. It still hurt to do so.

His jaw ached dully and it was a moment before he realised it was aching because he was prodding it gently with his thumb. The swelling had all but gone down and apart from the cut that still skewed his bottom lip slightly – and the faint discoloration about his eye – the damage done to his face had healed as quickly as he had hoped it would. He had never been sure what hurt more, the wounds themselves or the pain he had seen reflected in the eyes of his friends' whenever they looked at him, no matter how briefly it glinted there.

The other injuries he had been able to conceal.

* * *

"Attack," Grantaire said aloud, his voice curiously flat in the silence.

And he moved like lightning across the floor, making the seven basic cuts in quick succession, the candlelight blurring around him causing the rest of the room to go out of focus. In his mind's eye he saw the large practice targets painted on the walls of the room he was taught in, but now the four key points bore faces instead of faded red marks.

* * *

Enjolras picked up the razor and it felt cold and heavy in his hand. The water in the basin was growing cool.

He looked down at the razor and then up again back into the mirror. Although he had been gazing at it for nearly half an hour now, it was only now that he actually focused his vision and looked at his reflection. All his life, people had told Enjolras that he was handsome and as he never considered this important, he had neither believed nor disbelieved.

Once when he was about eight, he had looked into a mirror and tried to see what other people saw that made them say the things they did. And what he saw was a sum of parts that, when added up to a whole, failed to immediately enlighten him. He saw hair that was yellow like his mother's but straight like his father's, eyes that were blue like his father's and a mouth that was a little like his mother's. He was tall for his age, so in that sense he was also like his father, and people said that he had his mother's smile and it was a pity he didn't display it more often. With a child's reasoning, he had therefore concluded that the reason was because he had similar features to his parents and they were called handsome, so that must make him handsome by proxy. And he had left it at that.

The label of "the handsome young Monsieur Enjolras" had followed him relentlessly into adulthood and still he never understood it. But that didn't stop him resenting it, or resenting the silly mademoiselles and matrons who batted their eyelashes or gazed in muted speculation and turned social events of any kind into portents of dread and embarrassment. He had thought that it simply could not get any worse than standing trapped and alone in lavish salons as powdered creatures draped in taffeta and lace and cloying sweet scent rustled and whispered around him, or walking down a street and being painfully aware of voices giggling in his wake, brash and brittle as tin whistles.

* * *

Grantaire had been cut only once, by accident, and he remembered vividly the slight sting of the blade as it sliced neatly through the fabric of his shirtsleeve and into his skin beneath. The bleeding had not been severe – his equally young opponent had been more distressed than he – but the sharp shock of tempered steel against his flesh had been unforgettable. He had never seen real harm rendered with a sword, let alone inflicted any.

Not yet.

* * *

But then the voices calling him handsome became lower and huskier, cloying as bad brandy, sharp and menacing as the smell of sweat and fear. Rough hands restrained him and forced him to look evil in the face, and it was an evil unlike that which he wrote and spoke about, unlike any he had ever imagined, and it crashed down upon him with a terrifying, brutal, unstoppable conviction.

* * *

__

"Repeat," said that cool dry voice.

And Grantaire did so, but first he hefted the sword from his right hand into his left, altering his stance accordingly. He had been one of the few regulars of Dechésne-Cheron's meetings to be able to use both hands with reasonably equal dexterity, but had never really liked attacking from the left. Now, however, he discovered that transferring all the steps and cuts from right to left came almost as second nature.

* * *

A sharp face, twisted and vulpine with malice leered down at him, and Enjolras had wanted to plead and protest, to say, _"Why are you doing this? You can't be any older than I!"_ but other hands were pressed across his mouth making speech impossible and breath nearly so. And then the face had gone out of focus and instead there was a knife so close to him that he could already tell what it would feel like to have cold steel bite through him.

* * *

Grantaire ran through the same cuts again, shifting between first and third positions – the two most practical in actual combat.

__

"Left parry. Up into the second guard position."

He spun sharply on his right heel into a quarter-turn, bringing the sword out, up and back to the left in three quick strokes. Parrying that quickly should have made the tendons in his wrist creak but they did not.

* * *

The young man threatened to cut his face and Enjolras could see in his eyes that he had truly, desperately wanted to. Then the cold blade slid slowly across his bruised cheek and down along his throat. In a moment that was shattering in its lucidity, Enjolras thought, _Kill me,_ and truly meant it. But the knife travelled further down and then paused, poised lightly against his breastbone. Then Enjolras understood that just as the others had used him in their way, so this man would use him in his – and he needed only a knife to inflict the damage he desired.

The blade felt like fire across his skin and it hurt all the more because the young man took his time. Enjolras tried to turn his head away but strong hands wrenched it around and down and forced him to look.

* * *

__

"Good. Now right parry and into fourth guard."

And it was done almost before Grantaire had time to plot the move out in his head. He could see the crow fluffing its feathers out of the corner of his eye as he switched hands once again and repeated the exercise.

* * *

Enjolras felt a twinge and involuntarily pressed a hand against his chest. The bandages he wrapped around his torso morning and night were only a precaution now, but there were still times when the healing cuts stung and ached. _No one will see ever see it,_ he had promised himself. _No one will ever know. _So he had tended the wounds carefully and alone, dreading the thought of infection, even though he felt sick every time he had to look at the pattern of scars the man had left on him. He felt the same nausea every time his reflection caught him by surprise, or whenever someone touched him no matter how casually or briefly, or even just mentioned his appearance.

* * *

__

"Remember the old adage, boys," his teacher said crisply in a high-ceilinged room long ago. _"Rage strikes, but revenge stabs." _He had said it as though it meant something obvious but nonetheless significant, and neither Grantaire nor any of the other boys had been quite game enough to ask for clarification or discuss it quizzically amongst themselves.

Cutting empty air Grantaire imagined cutting flesh and moved even faster, trying to keep his back to the shadows that flickered and swirled around him. In the shadows, memories of Enjolras paced soundlessly across the floor with uneven step and ragged breath that verged on a sob.

* * *

The previous night Courfeyrac had said for what felt like the hundredth time since they'd met how grateful he was that Enjolras put up no contest for the grisettes of the city, and Enjolras had wanted to round on him and tell him to be silent. But he hadn't. He reminded himself that there was only one way to ensure that nobody suspected that anything had changed, so he walked on and said nothing, as if he had not heard.

__

I'm strong enough to stand tall and face the foes of liberty, he had always told himself. _My hands are steady enough to hold a weapon, should the time come when it is required. My voice is loud enough to speak for those who cannot speak. And that is all that matters._

And that had been taken away in one night. How could he defend the people when he couldn't even defend his own body, when it had been so easy for them to smother his pleas for the preservation of his dignity? His form and face had been forcibly changed from something virtually irrelevant into something obscene and shameful, something which he was now not only agonisingly aware of but had absolutely no control over.

* * *

"I thought you had a death-wish," Grantaire said aloud as he guarded against an imaginary foe from the left. "But it was the other way around, wasn't it? Death had a wish for _you_ and it found you that night."

A shadow flickered out of the corner of his eye. Grantaire whirled around and parried, crouching into a hanging guard again before repeating the move with his other hand. Speaking the truth aloud did not make them hurt any less, but it somehow made them make more sense. 

* * *

Once their mad, filthy business was done, the men had told Enjolras, _"In case you haven't got the message, not everyone wants to hear what you have to say. If we're forced to call on you a second time, we won't be half so gentle." _And in the sudden echoing silence of their departure, Enjolras found himself thinking, _If I just stopped breathing right now, I wouldn't care_ . . .

* * *

__

sacrifice martyrdom suicide murder how thin the line between eh boy

Grantaire lowered the sword, blinking back tears. "They killed him that night. It took seven months for his body to catch up, that's all."

To Grantaire, Justin Enjolras had been nothing short of a miracle. It was as simple as that. He was absolute conviction and absolute purity combined and incarnate, clothed in a fleshly form for which gods would have surely fallen from grace in order to possess. How this sorry time and place could have conceived such a man was as mysterious as it was ludicrous.

"Go ahead and sacrifice yourself," he had told Enjolras one afternoon in July 1830. "But just for the record, I think you're casting the most luminous pearl this world is ever likely to see before swine who'll appreciate the gesture even less than the editor of _The Blue Quill_ appreciated Prouvaire's series of sonnets."

The words were spoken blithely but in his heart of hearts Grantaire had meant them. And because of five men's sick desire to violate and hurt, Enjolras had felt himself weak and worthless. Of his friends. Of his life. Of his cause. So he continued with a steely recklessness that only he understood, daring – and perhaps silently pleading for – someone, anyone, to deal the final blow that would usher the stillness and silence he craved. 

"Inestimable worth" were two words that Grantaire thought got bandied around far too much and that was the worth he had placed on Enjolras' life. Heaven and Hell and all the places between should have stopped still in wonder on June 6 1832 as Enjolras laid down his life for what he believed in. Instead, that life had become something small and pitiful that Enjolras placed at the feet of his heartless brazen goddess in an attempt to placate Her and compensate for his hour of fear and shame. For what he had seen as his failure. And because it was all he could think of to do in order to be rid of the taste of his own blood and bile.

And the attempt was made in vain. Gods do not exist, the dead cannot hear, and scars never really fade.

__

How could any of us have foreseen what would happen to him? To us?

There had been one other moment when Grantaire knew that he could have just walked away, or tried to persuade the others to walk away. It had been a week after Enjolras had made his first big speech to them all and Courfeyrac had tried to swear eternal loyalty. The first time that they had understood that Enjolras was being serious when he said, _I cannot guarantee you longevity, or even immediate safety._

The crow cawed softly.

__

the past's beyond your reach now boy don't go there

But the boy was already there.

* * *

Bossuet had been halfway through making some confused and forgettable argument in defence of Coquard, a rather eccentric spokesman for reformation in education, when Giradin, the manager of the Café Musain stumbled into the back room. His fleshy face was an even deeper shade of crimson than usual.

"The police!" he gasped.

All conversation ceased immediately and Grantaire was unsurprised to see all eyes turn to Enjolras, who was already on his feet.

"How many?" Enjolras asked.

"Three. Louison's keeping them talking in the front room. I think they're doing a sweep of the entire Place Saint-Michel."

"Right." Enjolras' gaze snapped back to the rest of the group. "Everyone out and quickly. Once you're at the end of the rue de Gres, split up, no groups larger than four, and make your ways as casually as you can to the university. We'll reconvene and headcount in the main courtyard at five o'clock."

Already the sound of chair legs scraping on floorboards was sounding throughout the room. Bossuet glanced quickly at Grantaire as if to say "Stick with us," and he and Joly were out the second door and pushing past a startled dishwasher, two other students on their heels.

Enjolras was still talking, the words clipped and calm. "Feuilly." Feuilly was already moving away and Enjolras needed to place a hand on his arm to catch his attention. "Go on to Laurence's, it's only a couple of shops down from here. Make sure that he knows what's happening and that there's nobody with him who can't be accounted for."

Feuilly nodded once, quickly, and gently shouldered the still spluttering Giradin to one side as he exited.

Grantaire felt Courfeyrac's hand on his shoulder and the man's voice in his ear, sharp, telling him to get up. But the wine was buzzing in him and his legs were suddenly wonderfully warm and heavy and he found himself idly wondering what the police would say to find a sole drunkard alone in a room with a map of the old France hanging on the wall. Then Courfeyrac was being thrust towards the door by a forceful hand and another face loomed out of the blurring darkness. A face with piercing blue eyes.

"MOVE!" Enjolras spat the word as though it were something filthy.

And Grantaire found himself suddenly on his feet and stumbling with the rest of the crowd towards the door. He was already out on the street before he realised that Enjolras' hand was no longer on his shoulder and propelling him by force.

Then Bossuet and Joly were flanking him, both of them talking fast and walking faster. The rest of the students were already scattering and melting into the rest of populace out and about in the surrounding streets. Courfeyrac was bounding towards them, holding his hat on with one hand, looking more alert than Grantaire had ever seen him.

"There's more police that way," he said, pointing. "Come on."

They followed him through a small cluster of street vendors and around another corner into a wide doorway where they huddled, silent, as they listened to the unmistakable tramp of feet with a mission and saw three broad-shouldered men in navy coats make their way briskly past their corner.

"I tried to tell you," Grantaire said, words slurring into one another. "Politics turns all men into vermin, be they marauding rats or frightened mice hiding from hungry cats."

"Shh!" Bossuet followed the three policemen with his eyes, still on edge.

Joly blew his nose unhappily. "It's happening again. Why do I always let my friends talk me into doing stupid things?"

Courfeyrac leaned over and gave the smaller man a pat on the shoulder. "Look on the bright side," he said consolingly. "We will never be bored again."

* * *

Cold tears coursed down Grantaire's cheek.

__

We never should have stayed. But we couldn't leave.

He ran his thumb back across the edge of the blade. He felt its bite and before the cut healed over again a thin stream of blood seeped across the blade. He thought of the other blade slick with Enjolras' blood.

"I know I'm a poor excuse for a champion," he said quietly, "but I'll stand as yours. I've sent one man to Hell tonight and the others will follow, I swear. They'll pay for what they've done. They will know the fear that you did and when they look into my eyes they'll see all their sins remembered."

With a wry, cold smile he raised the sword in a formal salute. A soldier prepared to go to war with a crow's harsh cry as his clarion call.

If he had to cut through a thousand men to find Enjolras again, then so be it.


	19. TCOD 17

**

CHAPTER 17

** _

"I never let on that I was on a sinking ship.  
I never let on that I was down.  
You blame yourself for what you can't ignore.  
You blame yourself for wanting more."  


_ - THE SMASHING PUMPKINS, "Zero" **

PROVENCE, 1820

**

The boy who had lost everything awoke to a reality he fervently wished were nothing more than a bad dream. He clung to those last ragged shreds of sleep for as long as he could, but within moments the light was too bright, the jolt of the carriage too jarring to ignore. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to the sight of the doughy-faced matron sitting opposite him, her cheap romance novel obviously open to the same page it had been when he had fallen asleep a little over twenty minutes ago.

"I'm glad you're awake," Madame Bergeret said baldly. "We're nearly there."

Pascal Thibodeau did not reply. He looked out the window instead, at the countryside rolling past and rolling on. The sun hung low in the sky, heavy as a great bronze-coloured orange, unaware of the boy who was worse than an orphan being sent to live with the only people who would take him.

He brought nothing with him. Before they parted four days previously, his sister had pressed a rosary into his hands and in that first lonely night of terror at the orphanage, Pascal held the beads against his cheek trying in vain to smell her familiar perfume in the smooth sheen of the polished wood. When Madame Bergeret had come to bring him to Provence and his new guardians, he had left the rosary behind. The god that Katherine had chosen to seek refuge in was no god of Pascal's and, in Pascal's opinion, He was completely unworthy of His new handmaiden.

Madame Bergeret brought with her a letter from Monsieur Cyprien Enjolras. It was both curt and courteous and made no mention at all of the circumstances of Pascal's sudden misfortune. In fact, this complete lack of reference had been the common binding factor of all that had happened within the past week. Sometimes Pascal wondered if the people whose lives he was being briefly shunted through even knew what had happened to him. Just when he was beginning to think that perhaps they did not, however, he would turn when they weren't expecting it and catch a glimmer of conciliatory understanding and sympathy, and know that they did.

Monsieur Enjolras was a cousin of Pascal's mother. There were other closer relations, but none had stepped forward to accept responsibility when the crushing blow fell. Katherine was sixteen already and a girl, so she was of no real concern and nobody except for Pascal seemed to care when she announced her intention to withdraw into a convent. Her twelve-year-old brother posed more of a difficulty however, and the son and heir to nobody and nothing had given himself up for lost long ago. He did not allow himself to grow hopeful at the thought of prospects regained - these days he hardly allowed himself to even breathe too loudly - for he knew that the situation he would enter into with the Enjolras family was hardly ideal.

He knew of them, of course. Like his own family had been, the chateau Enjolras were noble by lineage (not that one made too great a mention of it these days, of course) and wealthy through the industry of the recent generations. As with his own family there was a single son, whom Pascal had met on a handful of previous occasions. According to Madame Bergeret, Monsieur Enjolras had not been asked by anyone if he would take Pascal into his family but had volunteered the act of charity.

_I cannot come to fetch him myself,_ Monsieur Enjolras had written, _but we shall be ready to receive him into our home any time after the sixteenth. The sooner the better, for his sake._

Things could be much worse, Pascal knew that. But that did not make him feel any less sick and weary and afraid as the carriage rolled smoothly down a wide drive shaded by sweet-scented trees, towards a pair of great iron gates with the Enjolras crest furnished ornately above them and a large elegant house behind them.

Madame Bergeret was leaning out the window and looking at the house, her face dimpled with admiration. "Handsome looking place," she remarked. "And look - they're out to meet you." Pascal looked. Standing at the top of the steps leading up to the house were an equally handsome-looking couple who had to be Monsieur and Madame Enjolras, accompanied by three servants.

The carriage came to a stop and one of the servants stepped forward and opened the door. Pascal alighted and was mildly surprised to see that Monsieur and Madame Enjolras were making their way down the steps. Madame Enjolras held her hands out towards him.

"Welcome, Pascal," she said quietly, her lovely face sad and kind as she embraced him quickly and a little awkwardly. She smelt like violets. Pascal swallowed, sternly telling himself not to cry.

He could hear Monsieur Enjolras speaking quietly to Madame Bergeret behind him. Then Madame Enjolras was holding him lightly by the shoulders and looking down at him, the same sad, kind smile on her lips. "We've been looking forward to meeting you," she said. Then, as though she was anxious not to appear insensitive, "Although we're sorry the circumstances aren't happier."

Pascal tried to smile and maybe he succeeded, a hint of hope crept into Madame Enjolras' face. "Thank you, madame."

"It was all we could think of to do," she replied, slipping an arm around his shoulders. The gesture was tentative and Pascal wished that she would hold him tighter. "When we heard about - about what happened, Cyprien wrote straight away. And please, call me Isabelle."

He nodded, although he was not sure whether he could be so familiar. By now Monsieur Enjolras and Madame Bergeret had finished talking and both were looking at him. 

"You'll be taken good care of here," Madame Bergeret said. "Monsieur Enjolras tells me that he's enrolled you in his son's school and you can start whenever you feel ready."

"Thank you, sir," Pascal said to Monsieur Enjolras.

"You've been fortunate, master Pascal," Madame Beregeret added. "See how the good Lord provides for those in need."

So he didn't have to meet the solicitous glances of the servants or the uneasy glances of the Enjolrases, Pascal looked down at his feet while Madame Bergeret stepped smartly back into the carriage. As it rolled slowly around the drive and back towards the gates, Madame Enjolras turned and gently steered him up the steps towards the great doors of the house. Monsieur Enjolras walked behind him.

"I'll take you up to your rooms," Madame Enjolras said. "There's warm water and soap and towels I'm sure you'd like to fresh up a little - you've had quite a journey."

"I'll take him up," Monsieur Enjolras interjected, "if you don't mind, my dear."

"Of course not." She smiled and moved away, silk and taffeta rustling across the marble floor.

Then Pascal felt Monsieur Enjolras' hand on his arm. "This way, Pascal."

They walked up the stairway in silence. A maid was polishing the banister on the first landing and she stared at Pascal with open mouth and wide eyes as he passed, seeming not to even hear Monsieur Enjolras' quiet rebuke.

Finally, as he led Pascal down a large hallway with a high ceiling, he spoke. "I know it will be hard, but we'd like you to think of this as your home. We shan't turn our backs on you. What's past is past and it can't be helped." He looked down at Pascal from his considerable height and his pale blue eyes were kind. "What I mean to say is, don't think of yourself as a visitor here. You are family, after all."

Pascal tried to think of something to say in reply to this but he could not. The truth of what Monsieur Enjolras had said - as well as the untruth - made his head ache and his chest uncomfortably tight. He was tired of feeling this way, sick with misery and that constant queasy low-key panic.

Monsieur Enjolras stopped outside a large white door and Pascal stopped with him. "This is your room," Monsieur Enjolras said. "We weren't sure what sort of things you would like, so if there's anything amiss just tell Isabelle or myself and we'll see to it." He pointed down the hallway. It ended in a junction. "Our son's quarters are just down there, to the left. You've met him once before, actually. Do you remember?"

Pascal shook his head. Monsieur Enjolras shrugged, smiling slightly. "I didn't expect you to. You were both quite small at the time. Justin's in town with a friend and his parents today. Perhaps he could show you around the estate tomorrow. Would you like that?"

"Very much, sir," Pascal replied, realising immediately how obsequious it had sounded. _Keep your pride,_ a memory of Katherine whispered in his ear. Don't let them take your dignity away. "I mean, perhaps if I'm not too tired."

Monsieur Enjolras smiled that hesitant smile again, and held the door open for Pascal. The room was light and airy and well furnished. The bed was canopied. There were two large windows with a view out onto the courtyard and orchards beyond. Hot water steamed in a bowl on the dressing table and Pascal washed his face and hands as Monsieur Enjolras sat on the window seat and watched him. The soap smelt faintly of lavender.

"There aren't too many house rules, but my wife and I expect them to be adhered to strictly," Monsieur Enjolras said conversationally, running a hand quickly through his dark hair. "You won't be allowed to go into town alone until you're fifteen, and you won't be allowed out at night after eight, unless accompanied by my wife and I, or other adults. So if you want to go home after school with friends and stay with them for dinner, be sure that we have advance notice. You'll have to go to church every Sunday until you're fifteen also - but after that we won't force you if you're not interested, there's no point. You're allowed anywhere on the estate but watch out for the bulls in the east field - the fence is there for a reason - and you can swim in the river but not below Sainte-Agnes' bridge, the current gets stronger further down. Do you ride, by the way?"

Pascal finished drying his face on the towel. "Yes, sir."

Monsieur Enjolras nodded approvingly. "I'll watch you later and see how you go. If I'm satisfied that you can hold yourself in a saddle and know how to treat a horse, you can have your pick of the yearlings in the first stable. From then on, you supervise its maintenance." He paused a moment, as though considering whether to continue. "If there are any other sports you played at home or would like to learn, just tell me and we'll see about lessons. Justin rides and he plays tennis every now and then, but not much else."

Pascal nodded. Then he noticed a white envelope on the table. "What's this?"

"That's your allowance. Ten francs a week to begin with, paid every Tuesday and it has to last. You'll get more when you get a little older, of course." His face suddenly became grave and his voice gentle. "I don't suppose they'll be sending any of your clothes on?"

Pascal swallowed and shook his head. "They won't be sending anything. They're not allowed."

Monsieur Enjolras lowered his head. "That's what I thought." He looked back up at Pascal with that sympathetic gaze Pascal knew he really couldn't afford to resent but resented anyway. "We'll have a tailor come tomorrow and fit you up for new clothes. There are some of Justin's old things in the wardrobe for you to go on with, but we weren't sure if they'd fit."

He rose and patted Pascal's shoulder. Like Madame Enjolras' embrace, the act was awkward. "Dinner will be served at eight. Would you like to eat at the table, or should we send a tray up here?"

Pascal was about to say he would prefer to eat at the table when Madame Enjolras appeared in the doorway. Man and boy turned to her. Her face was pale and her voice taut. "Cyprien, the Combeferres have come home early with Justin. They'd like to see you downstairs." She looked to Pascal and flashed an equally strained smile. "Is the room alright, Pascal?"

"Yes, Madame."

Pascal looked back up at Monsieur Enjolras. His brow had furrowed and his eyes darkened. "What's he done this time?" he asked stonily.

Madame Enjolras shook her head slightly. "I think you had best come down and talk to Doctor Combeferre."

Monsieur Enjolras bowed his head for a moment again. When he lifted it his face was calm and his eyes cool. He followed his wife out into the hallway and after waiting until they were a safe distance away, Pascal followed. Better anything than sitting alone in that big empty room. 

The maid who had stared at him was talking quietly to another, younger than she, in the hallway. "There was a riot in town today," the younger was saying. "That's what Jérome told me. And master Justin was right there in the middle of it." They both fell silent as Pascal approached and then passed them before continuing to whisper excitedly. Pascal heard his father's name said by one girl and then repeated by the other.

He paused just below the first landing. Already he could hear voices drifting up from the entrance hall.

"They said they were going to see the fountain," a man said, sounding more aggrieved than angry. "It didn't enter my head that they would lie."

"If I had any say in the matter I wouldn't let them ever see each other again!" came a woman's voice, tearful. "My son could have _died_ today."

"It's just a scratch, Mother . . ." began a boy' voice as the woman's collapsed into quavering sobs.

Pascal inched further down the carpeted stairs, pressing up against the banisters until the floor of the entrance hall came into view.

Madame Enjolras was consoling a woman in a plum-purple gown, the feathers trembling in her bonnet as she wept into a lacy handkerchief. At her side was a finely-featured man of slight build holding his hat in one hand, running his other through his thinning brown hair. Between the two adults was a boy with brown hair and spectacles, his right shirtsleeve rolled up above the elbow and heavily bandaged. 

The man - Doctor Combeferre - was in the middle of addressing Monsieur Enjolras who appeared to be standing between the doctor and another boy, tall and fair-haired. He turned around just in time to hear his son's protest. "And it's only through the grace of God that it's not more than a scratch," he said severely. "Just what were you thinking, rushing in there!? You're older than he is - what kind of example is that to set?"

"It was my fault, sir!" The blond boy stepped around Monsieur Enjolras and up to Dr. Combeferre. "I wanted to hear what Lalande had to say. Eduard could see the gendarmes gathering around, he thought we should stay away but I didn't listen. It was my fault." This has to be Justin.

Monsieur Enjolras pulled his son back beside him, not ungently. "Be quiet," he ordered, before addressing Dr. Combeferre. "Will your son be alright?"

Dr. Combeferre took a deep breath and nodded. "He's right, it's just a shallow cut. My wife doesn't like the sight of blood, as you know, I put the bandage on to pacify her. It won't even need stitches."

"I'm very glad to hear it." Monsieur Enjolras looked at Justin. "Go upstairs," he said coldly. "I'll talk to you shortly."

Instead of obeying immediately, Justin looked at Dr. and Madame Combeferre. "It was my fault," he repeated steadily, "and I'm very sorry. Don't punish him." Then he started making his way towards the stairway, not yet seeing Pascal.

Madame Combeferre seized Madame Enjolras' hand in both her own. "I know they're both good boys," she said, her voice still quavering, "but sometimes I fear that Justin will be the undoing of us all."

Madame Combeferre's lips tightened again. "You're upset, Lorraine," she said. "You said it yourself, they're good boys. He'll be nothing of the sort. And you needn't fear for Eduard, I'm sure of it."

The other woman shook her head. "And now you're taking in the Thibodeau boy, out of the goodness of your heart. Aren't you afraid of him giving Justin, well, _ideas?_"

Pascal's stomach lurched and he had to grip the banisters tightly for fear of his feet giving way beneath him. Everything became blurry and for a few moments he could only see spots and stars dancing before his eyes. He heard Monsieur Enjolras' voice cut coldly through the air. "Lorraine, I would ask you to keep your voice down. The boy's just upstairs. He arrived this afternoon."

When his vision cleared he saw Justin Enjolras standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at him. He appeared about to speak when he glanced back towards the adults, thought better of it, and ascended quickly and quietly.

Pascal stood his ground as the other boy approached. Justin Enjolras was taller than he. He looked at Pascal levelly and with a little curiosity. "Hello," he said quietly.

"H-hello," Pascal replied. There wasn't much else to say.

The voices of the adults continued to drift up in waves. Justin glanced back down over the banister, then pointed up. Pascal nodded and the two boys made their way silently up the stairs.

"When did you arrive?" Justin asked once they'd reached the landing.

"A little while ago. Your father showed me my room." Pascal paused for a moment. "Your father looks very angry. Will he beat you?"

Pascal did not intend the question as a taunt, and Justin obviously did not take it as one. He shook his head. "The last time he thrashed me was when I was ten." He bit his lower lip. "I don't care what they do, as long as they make Dr. Combeferre see that it wasn't Eduard's doing. He won't take it from me, but he will from my parents."

They walked down the hallway towards their rooms. The maids had gone by now.

"What happened?" Pascal asked, genuinely curious and also hoping to stave off any questions Justin might ask of him.

"Exactly what I said. I wanted to see Lalande speak in the market. There were more people than I thought there would be, and police. People started getting excited and the police stepped in. There was fighting."

"What happened to your friend? He had a bandage on his arm and his father said he was cut."

Justin dug his hands deep into his pockets. His expression was deeply troubled. "We got separated in the crush. Some of the workers were waving knives around. I didn't see quite what happened. But when I could see Eduard again, he had his left hand pressed to his other arm, and there was blood between his fingers." He paused. "What Madame Combeferre said about you was cruel. She was upset, she didn't mean it."

Pascal looked down at the floor. "Don't be so sure." His voice sounded weaker than he meant it to.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Justin asked quietly.

Pascal looked back up at him. The older boy's eyes were looking straight into his. Candid. Honest. "What?"

"I think your father was very brave."

That dizzy feeling swept through Pascal again and he had to lean against the wall. "You don't know that." His voice was trembling.

"What do you mean?" Justin frowned. "Don't you think so too?"

"Justin!" rang out a clear, angry voice and both boys looked up sharply.

Monsieur Enjolras was standing at the landing, looking down the hallway at them. His eyes were cold again. "Justin, come with me." He looked at Pascal and they softened a little. "I'm deeply sorry you had to see us like this on your first day. If there's anything you need, then ring for it."

He stood waiting for Justin to follow. Before Justin did, he looked back at Pascal. There was hurt in his clear eyes . . . and confusion. Then he followed his father back downstairs and Pascal went into his room and closed the door.

The boy whose father was a traitor to the country of France crossed the floor to his new bed and lay down upon it. The boy whose mother was found lying dead on the floor, empty vial in one hand, letter to her children in the other, counted his breaths until his chest stopped aching again. The boy who had lost everything except his name - and what honour was there in that, cursed as it was? - wrapped himself in stillness and silence willing this first long day to end.

Justin Enjolras did not understand.

And that was how it began.


End file.
